


Prism

by agirlsname



Series: The Secret Blog of Dr. John H. Watson [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bedsharing, Brief John/Mary, Declarations Of Love, Epistolary, Fluff, Getting Back Together, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, Love Letters, M/M, Mary is Not Nice, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Post-Reichenbach, Reunion, Sexting, Smut, Texting, angsty sex, another dog, dancing sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-04-26 06:45:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 56
Words: 29,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14396520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agirlsname/pseuds/agirlsname
Summary: If Sherlock and John were a couple before the fall - what would it be like when Sherlock came back?





	1. 14th June: Texts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FinAmour](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinAmour/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [【授权翻译】棱镜/Prism](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14604657) by [BakerSt233B](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerSt233B/pseuds/BakerSt233B)



> This is part 3 of The Secret Blog series - it will make the most sense if you first read Undersea-Rainbows and Unseeing Rainbow Eyes!
> 
> Time frame: When Prism starts, it's been three years since Sherlock fell (and about 3,5 years since the happenings of Undersea-Rainbows (part 1)).  
> In the last chapter of Unseeing Rainbow Eyes (part 2), it's the 31st May 2014. This fic takes off two weeks later.
> 
> For [FinAmour](http://archiveofourown.org/users/finamour/pseuds/finamour), who has helped making this fic what it is with invaluable ideas, feedback and enthusiasm. Thank you my dear!
> 
> Thank you also to [thinkhappythoughts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkhappythoughts) for being a sounding board (specifically for drawing up a very peculiar family tree), and to Akhenaten's Mummy for the beta. Any remaining errors are either my fault or my full intention.
> 
> The fic is finished, only awaiting beta and final editing. I'll come back later today to add more chapters - for now, though, I can't resist giving you the first one.

John    16:36  
Sherlock, this is the night. Thought I'd be  
more ready when it came. I'm not supposed  
to text this number any more, I'm just.  
Nervous. I'm proposing to Mary, and I can't  
shake the feeling that proposing to you  
wouldn't have been this hard. I miss you. As  
ever. John

 

Sherlock    17.00  
Wait. SH


	2. 14th June: Blog Draft

Sherlock lives.

 

He lives, sitting in Mycroft's office, arguing about how stupid he was to contact me and ruin all of their important plans when he should have understood I wouldn't welcome him anyway.

He lives, looking up in SURPRISE when I entered the room. HE was surprised to see ME.

He lives, looking healthy and unharmed with an intact skull and glistening eyes and shiny curls, not a man who has just today risen from the grave, but a man who has been alive for three years and not told me.

He lives, his cheekbone rock hard and bruising my knuckles.

He lives, gasping when his chair falls backwards with me on top, grasping his collar.

He lives, making a sharp cry of pain when we hit the floor.

He lives, his body smelling smelling smelling of Sherlock, I've been chasing that smell for three years, never able to accept that it's gone forever from his dead clothes.

He lives, his body trembling under my shaking grip.

He lives, firmly grasping my arms while I was holding his shirt so hard that the fabric hurt my palms, while I was panting or sobbing against his shoulder on the floor.

He lives, remaining still when I shout that I hate him, I hate him, I hate him more deeply than I have ever hated anything or anyone, and my voice was so frighteningly hollow when it was that loud, and I couldn't breathe, I couldn't _do_ anything. I wanted to hurt him, I wanted to kiss him until he broke, but I couldn't, I could barely hold on to his pressed collar, and I could absolutely not let go.

He lives, saying my name quietly. I screamed.

You don't get to say my name. You don't get to unlock everything you forced me to lock in. You don't. You bastard. You.

You're alive. And i love you – and itm akes me want to rip your skin off.

Mycroft tried to reason with me and then I walked away. I didn't even look back and I regret it so badly because his _face_ , I need to see his face.

I've been trying to sleep, Mary told me to calm down and to rest but I can’t, because I just see him falling, he's forever falling, and his rainbow eyes are unseeing and there's blood all over me. The night air is stiff and silent and I've forgotten how to breathe. I can hear my lungs wheezing and I can't

 

Sherlock lives.

 

I'm staring at the words but it doesn't help. It doesn't make it real. Seeing him, now that would make it real.


	3. 15th June: Blog Draft

It was getting brighter. My footsteps echoed through a dim and hazy Baker Street.

The windows were dark, but I know that doesn't mean he's asleep. He could be standing there, just behind the window. He could be watching me coming.

In retrospect, I regret the choice of time to go there. At three AM, everything seems unreal, and now I'm scared it's just a dream. That's actually more realistic than Sherlock Holmes being alive.

But the door looked different from when I last saw it, and that's what brought me to open it. Before, it looked like a black hole. Now it was more like a soft invitation in gold as pale as daybreak. I still have my key and I know how to be quiet about it.

The familiar violin greeted me like an arrow to the chest. I closed the door and leaned my back against it, closing my eyes.

He was playing softly and earnestly, like he used to do when he interrupted my nightmares. I woke up in a cold sweat to something warm, beautiful, loving maybe. I would turn over in bed and almost feel him wrapped around my back. What he poured into his violin in those morning hours was himself, unguarded, the fragile beautiful soul he hoped no one would notice he had. Has.

In the notes, I could feel the warmth of his body, the softness of his hair, the smell in the crook of his neck. Then the music faded and the presence was gone.

Thing is, this time I could have the real thing. But I couldn't bring myself to go up there.

I'm so fucking scared, and I don't know of what. That he won't be there after all. That he'll be there, but be changed. That he will  _ not _ be changed, that he'll still be the love of my life just when I've decided to propose to someone else.

I don't know what to say to him. I don't know if I can bear him saying anything to me.

I went out and locked the door behind me. I didn't turn back when I walked down the street, because this time I could swear he was watching me. He didn't call me back, though.


	4. 16th June: Blog Draft

I just feel… numb. Nothing. I'm trying to savour it.

Mary's gone to work. I called in sick. Haven't slept all night. She didn't question it.

Not today, she didn't. She mostly ignored me at the kitchen table, let me sit and stare at my unpublished blog post. Didn't even ask what I was doing. She left me in peace so that's good.

But… well. I didn't think much of it at the time, because of all that was happening. She was waiting for me at the restaurant, of course, I completely forgot to tell her I wasn't coming. Wonder if she'd guessed I'd propose – God, please let her not have guessed.

When I finally noticed that she kept calling me, I just told her to meet me at home.

She looked a bit scared when she saw my face.

“Sherlock's alive”, I said.

And there was a second - one whole second - where I saw she was about to ask

_ Are you sure? _

Don't know what I was expecting. What's the protocol here, anyway? We were together when he fell. I've never called him my “ex”, that's not what happened. He was dead, so being with Mary doesn't count as cheating – I would never cheat on him. Somewhere during this time, our relationship ended all on its own, and I hate that. We were supposed to

I almost wish I hadn't told Mary. That we were together, or that he's back. I wasn't supposed to – Mycroft called me to tell me it's still a secret. He would have abducted me for sure, but apparently there could be eyes on us. This whole thing isn't over, he told me, and I don't even know what this whole thing is. I'm just trying to breathe.

It was the only thing I could think of, turning to Mary for support. Who else do I have? That was the whole point of meeting someone in the first place. But, well, how do you react when your boyfriend's dead boyfriend comes back to life? I shouldn't hold it against her. She was supportive when he was dead. Alive is something else.

But that second of doubt for my sanity - it sits in my chest like a needle.

I don't want to share this with her. The fact that she sees my anger, confusion, grief, whatever the hell this is, and doesn't get it… I can work sleep-deprived. I just didn't want to spend the workday with her. Not this day.


	5. 17th June: Blog Draft

you know, there was a time when i said i hated him for leaving me. for choosing the easy way out, the one where he doesnt have to face bloody anything ever again, the one no one can undo. well hate doesn't even begin to cover what i'm feeling now. i feel like ive screamed at the walls for hours, but really it's just the aching walls of my chest rattling with deafeningly silent screams. i loved him, can you believe it? i loved this maniac who cares more about some game than about the one friend hes ever had, a game he won't even let me in on because only people who are clever enough or insane enough or psychopathic enough get to know. even more pathetically, i didn't just love him, i loved him for EVERYTHIGN that he is. i thought i was the one person who'd been allowed to see through it, but in the end that was just his trick, wasn't it. he fooled me, god knows why, i'm beyond caring about why. he let me into some fantasy about how he felt the same, and god he was convincing right until the very end. right until he needed to be alone, probably couldn't afford a weight of sentiment hanging on him when he went on to whatever took him three years. did he take on cases? did he have fun? he must have been relieved being rid of me, because sentiment gets in the way of the work, and the work comes first, that's what he always said. i guess i should've been warned, but there's no way i could expect this. he cried and said goodbye and fell and landed, however the fuck that happened, he let me break down over his body and he lay down on a gurney, and then he rose, wiped the blood off his face, and congratulated himself on another well-performed scheme. the very worst day of my life was just another day at work for him, another day fooling people, neglecting people, being rude to people who didn't deserve it and letting down people who loved him. he left me to die and he didn't look back. i wonder if he forgot about me, eventually, never spared a thought on how i was withering where he left me, or if he just didn't care either way. i have demolished my own heart for him and he doesn't give a damn fuck. he must have no feelings at all, then, because how could a person who has feelings stand there on the roof, see me break apart, and go through with it anyway? i never thought i'd miss the hollow shell of a life i lived mourning him, but i do. and i miss the numbness. right now i'm so angry my walls might soon crumble around me.

it's dead quiet here. and the fact that i still love him more than anything,


	6. 17th - 18th June: Texts

Sherlock    10:00  
If you visit Baker Street, make the  
appearance of visiting Mrs Hudson.  
Everything is perfectly safe if we stay away  
from the windows. SH

Sherlock    10:23  
You are welcome to visit, that is. SH

Sherlock    10:26  
Any time. SH

 

Sherlock    20:00  
John, I would like to speak to you. SH

Sherlock    21:30  
Let me explain. SH

Sherlock    22:00  
It would be a massive inconvenience to do it  
by text, John. SH

Sherlock    22:19  
John.

Sherlock    22:31  
Please.

 

Sherlock    09:04  
Would you prefer it if I visited you? SH

John    09:06  
No. Stay away from my flat.

Sherlock    09:06  
John, please come. SH

Sherlock    09:14  
I know you're there – pick up your phone. SH

Sherlock    09:26  
You cannot run from this. SH

John    09:35  
You don't get to tell me what I can and can't  
do. Leave me alone.

Sherlock    09:58  
I will, but I need to explain first. Please, John.  
One last time, then I will not bother you and  
Mary any more. SH

John    10:04  
I don't even want to know, Sherlock. It doesn't  
matter after what you did.

Sherlock    10:05  
John, you clearly have no understanding of  
what I did. SH

John    10:07  
Right, because I'm not clever enough to  
deduce it? Silly John, buying this joke for  
three fucking years.

Sherlock    10:08  
It's not a joke, John. This is not the time for  
drawing conclusions from insufficient data  
clouded by irrational sentiment. Do not  
pretend to be more stupid than you are. SH

John    10:08  
Wow. Really missed this.

John    10:09  
Irrational sentiment. I cant fucking believ you

Sherlock    10:09  
John, I didn't mean it like that. You know I  
didn't. SH

Sherlock    10:10  
You always knew I didn't. SH

John    10:11  
Well clearly I was wrong.

Sherlock    10:12  
I need to speak to you directly, John. SH

John    10:12  
I don't want to see you. I wish you were still  
dead.


	7. 19th June: Blog Draft

_I wish you were still dead._

 

I wanted him to be alive. I wanted it like I can't describe. I thought I'd be happy if he was, I thought it'd be the best thing that could ever happen to me.

I willed that day to play out differently. I went over every scenario, I fixed it a thousand times. It was hard, because most of what happened I didn't even understand, but I did it anyway. I lay in my bed and closed my eyes and folded my hands in prayer. I didn't pray to God, I prayed to _him_ not to be dead.

If I'd known… I'd have prayed for him to never have existed.

 

_I wish you were still dead._

 

The relief is so overwhelming I can't stand it. It's the most beautiful human being, once again gracing the earth with his presence. It's the missing part of my heart slotting back into place. It's the most vital, strong, living body _walking, breathing, talking_.

It's _right_. It's-

 _perfect_.

 

_I wish you were still dead._

 

It's a weird sentence, isn't it? A sentence that shouldn't be possible. How could anyone _not_ be _still dead_? Yet it flows so effortlessly through my head. With Sherlock, all the impossible is real. All the beauty and all the ruthless destruction. Even the destruction is beauty. Made into art in my nightmares; the black wings expanding and swooping down, darkening the pale day, imposing on my eyes, frightening me with its speed; the sky leaking drops that smear out in the air like a painting; the red blood glowing and slipping into every crease of the ground and of my hands.

It was all art. All for my benefit.

 

_I wish you were still dead._

 

I didn't mean it. I shouldn't have

He's walking and breathing and talking. It's unbearable not to be there to watch it. I am stuck in this fake reality, in which I became mundane, in which I decided to marry someone I pretended to think I love even though I actually know what love is, in which Sherlock is dead. He's not dead. That wasn't real because none of this is real.

I can't stand him. I hate him so much that my insides are shrivelling with it. But I can't be without him either.

 

_I wish you were still dead._

 

I need to make sure he isn't.

I need to see him.


	8. 20th June: Blog Draft

I just need not to forget. Never forget this.

It was close to 2 AM when I got there. It was quiet. I walked the steps slowly, to give him time to prepare. The flat was almost dark. Only the red lamp in the sitting room was shining, and the one over the sink. The curtains were closed.

He was standing in the middle of the room, wearing a suit. Awkward and still.

“John”, he said with a nod, in that kind of low voice that only comes out at that time in the morning.

He wasn't prepared for my visit. I guess I did that on purpose. I don't want to hear his rehearsed excuses. I want to confront him with the reality of me, just like he confronts me. I think I did have something to say, but I could only stare. The first time, I barely had time to look at him before I was pushing him to the floor.

He doesn't look like I remember. I was walking towards him, and he stayed in place. Something was off with his face. Last time I saw him, before, he looked… young. He was recklessly alive, burning with curiosity and passion. He was never this still.

Well, that isn't true, is it. Last time I saw Sherlock, his undersea-rainbows were staring at the sky and his face was unmoving like a marble statue. This is better, even if death seems to have aged him a lifetime. Even if the cautious expression on his face sat like a stone in my stomach, growing heavier the closer I came.

I stopped when I was close enough to touch. He stopped blinking, and so did I. We stared at each other, and his eyes looked so alive. Afraid and hesitant and helpless, but alive. It was torture just watching him; the ghost that's been following me for three years, the one I've wanted to touch so badly. And he still could be a ghost; I could be standing there alone in 221B like some kind of panicked soon-to-be-engaged man, hallucinating my dead boyfriend. I scanned Sherlock's body for life signs; the lift and fall of his shoulders, the minute shifting of his hands at his sides. It's not enough.

“Please”, I whispered, raising my hand.

He blinked down at it, then nodded once. I laid it on his arm, lightly stroking down to his hand. That simple touch almost undid him. His face twisted, his eyes shut, he started panting. God. What have, what has he

I lifted his hand. One of us was trembling. Could have been both. I took his pulse. Wouldn't have heard his suppressed whimper if I hadn't been standing so close. His pulse was jumping under my fingertips and I forced myself to believe the evidence that Sherlock was alive.

It was impossible not to keep touching him. To feel his arms, his shoulders, his hot neck, his soft hair with the intact skull. It was impossible not to press his body to mine; I wanted to absorb his shallow breaths, the heartbeats that quaked his chest, his warmth. I clutched at his neck, breathing hard into his shoulder with open mouth. His hands were splayed across my back, pressing me against him.

“I didn't mean it”, I whispered. The only answer was an exhalation.

No one was moving, really, and still everything was happening, pulsing between our bodies, the heat becoming more intimate, the sweat making our skin sticky, quickening breathing. My hands went into his hair, purposely messing it up. This is _my_ Sherlock, the one hidden inside the suits and the haughty rudeness – he's so human, he's so living, he's

It still wasn't enough. I slipped my hands down, found my way through his open suit jacket. His skin was even hotter through the thin fabric of his tight shirt, and I slid my hands around his waist to hold his back. And that's when I felt the bumps under the fabric.

We both froze. I pulled back, holding on tight to his waist to stabilise… someone, I don't know which one of us. I was about to ask, but there was no question. Especially when I saw the look on his face.

“Let me see.” My voice didn't shake. Not yet.

He didn't answer or move when I slid the jacket off him, carefully put it over the armrest of the sofa. I undid his shirt buttons and my hands didn't shake, not yet. I pulled him with me to the dim white light in the kitchen.

When I saw his back, the beautiful miles of alabaster skin interrupted by angry red streaks and covered with compresses… then every part of me was shaking.

“Jesus.” I should be calm – I _know_ to be calm in situations like this. But this is too much. This happened when I wasn't there to protect him – when he wouldn't let me. And that first day, I. I pushed him to the floor. On his back. Jesus. “Who did this?”

“They're dead.”

“I should-”

“They're recently changed.”

“Please, let me do _something_.”

“Nothing to do, John.”

He sank down onto a kitchen chair like he couldn't hold himself upright any more. I sank down into his neck, my forehead pressed against his bare skin, my hands grasping his unscathed upper arms. Tried to calm my breathing and breathe calm across the sore skin of his back. “I'm sorry”, I whispered.

He grabbed one of my hands and pulled me around so I was facing him. His face was harried and the light in his eyes so tired. “ _I'm_ sorry.” He looked like a scared boy with his pale lips trembling.

I reached out to stroke his hair with both hands and then I was in his arms, on his lap, our torsos pressed together, my thighs on either side of his hips. I clutched his head and buried his face in my neck, I breathed into his curls. I stroked the parts of him I dared to touch without hurting him – he sat straight on the hard chair, making sure his back never leaned on the backrest. That broke me.

At first, the moment was lined with anxiety. But at some point, with his bare chest against me and his dizzying scent filling my head, something switched. At some point, our breathing went from laboured with anguish to laboured with pleasure, and his hands were barely moving on my back, except that they were; pressing into me, slightly changing their grip, and it was so… intimate.

I don't know how to explain it. It wasn't something I chose to do, like I would have chosen to start kissing him. I didn't, I distinctly didn't choose that. Instead, in his arms, I slipped into something far more erotic than that, and when it started for real, we were already so far gone. I know I wrote that I don't cheat – but it's Sherlock

Come to think of it, what I wrote was I wouldn't cheat on _Sherlock_. God, what

 

I have never in my life been so hard without being touched except on my back, without being kissed except by hot breaths against my throat. He was rock hard underneath me, I was pressed against him as close as I could, and. It wasn't enough.

I wanted

Well. Yeah. Thing is, I wanted him to consume me. I wanted to feel beyond any doubt how real he is.

And I didn't want to hurt him, not in any way, not even for pleasure. I didn't want to pierce him, to intrude on him. I wanted to lay my hands on him in a way nobody has in three years. I wanted only pleasure for him, pleasure so kind it's practically unbearable.

I ordered him to stay still when I slid off him to get rid of my pants. Got the bottle of lube I put in that kitchen drawer three years ago. He did as I asked, and he watched me in disbelief when I came back onto his lap, opened his fly and squeezed lube onto my palm. His head fell back the second I touched him, his mouth falling open. Oh God, my Sherlock.

And, yes. It hurt. Like I've imagined it would. Felt like I was being cut in half for a while. Just like I wanted it to. Because it's one thing to see him, it's one thing to hear his voice. But this, I could _feel_ , and the sensation was so overwhelming I couldn't feel anything other than that. Sherlock is alive. And the pain cut through all the sorrow, all the fury, and all the gratitude for that, until everything lost meaning except his presence in me.

He tried to watch my face as I sank down onto him, but his eyes kept turning back into his head. I had to close my eyes too, hard, he was so painfully real inside me. Could feel my face screwed up in pain, in contrast to his pleasure smooth expression.

And then… I could never have guessed how that would feel. The moment the discomfort turned into this delicious, deep pressure. It never really stopped being _too much_ , but it did start being _not enough_. I needed him to move in me, I wanted him to slam into me, as deeply as humanly possible, until he had claimed every part of me, every last cell of my body.

Being open like that, in every sense of the word, it was. It was so intimate it felt like my mind was shattering. Like giving him an entry to my body gave him an entry to my soul, baring it all for him. The only thing keeping me from falling apart was that I was still in control. At one point he moved to take me in his hand, but I barked at him not to touch me.

He was unable to move, he just kept clutching my back, fingertips digging into my spine as I moved on top of him. I held his shoulders in an iron grip not to let his back fall onto the backrest. His face was wiped clean of every line of worry, bliss creasing his forehead, sweat glistening on it. His mouth was wide open, that unreal cupid's bow giving it the shape of a heart, but he was dead silent.

He was never silent during sex, before. _Never._

Doesn't mean he wasn't responsive, though. I could see every flicker of sensation across his face, and it was so beautiful. The rush of pleasure opened me up for the rush of love, God the fucking love. I knew every breath of him, because I know him the way I know sunrise and sunset. It was so _right_ , it was so _wonderful_ that he existed, and to be allowed to share his breaths with him.

When he came, it was with a quiet exhalation, his head jerking up to bury in the shirt I was still wearing. I came in my own hand while his cock was still twitching, and in that moment… everything was fine. Sherlock was etched inside me, living in my blood, and all the pain in the world was just… gone.

 

My body was unguarded and tears were flowing from my eyes. My panting had turned into sobs and I was holding his head against my chest, my fingers infinitely careful in his locks. He let me cry into his hair, still silent, slowly stroking my neck.

When my eyes were dry and my chest empty, I lifted my head. He tipped his head back, looking at me. His undersea-rainbow eyes were floating, the whites were streaked with red. He looked so tired. And still, he shone when he looked at me.

No one has ever looked at me like that. Mary doesn't look like that.

He read her name on my face somehow. “You should go home”, he murmured.

I wish I had a mind palace to commit his face to memory. This was the last time I saw him like that. My own Sherlock, warm and damp with sweat, tired breaths pumping through his lungs. Even when every bit of emotion is cried out of me, there's a solid, shining fact settled in my whole body. I love him. I love him so much, I love him.

“Don't say it”, he whispered before I got a chance to open my mouth.

I never said that to him. Not… in person. And then it struck me.

“Did you have your phone with you the whole time?”

He blinked, slowly. He looked completely and utterly helpless, sorrow radiating from his face.

God.

I almost said I'm sorry. But I'm not. I'm not fucking sorry.

I kissed him. Slowly, tenderly, I kissed in the way that belongs to him. When I let go, his eyelids were still pressed together. “I said don't say it.”

I almost smiled. Lay my hand across his cheek, lightly stroking. “That's impossible.”

He cried then. Against my chest, quietly.


	9. 20th June: Texts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well hello again! Time for the next few chapters. This one is set later the same day as the previous chapter - that is, the morning after John went to Sherlock and ended up having sex.
> 
> Let me remind you that I have written this fic to the end, and I'm posting new chapters when I'm done editing them with my beta. This time I actually have some more chapters queued up, but I'll still take a few day's break from posting in order to, in my beta's words, "allow the emotions to fully mature - think of it as allowing fine cheese or red wine to reach room temperature for maximum flavour". (The flavour, in this case, being heavy angst. You're welcome.)

Mary    12:01  
Are you home yet?

Mary    12:02  
Could you take the salmon out of the  
freezer?

John    12:13  
Yeah. I went to see Sherlock and didn't want  
to wake you. Sorry I wasn't here when you  
woke up

Mary    12:13  
That's fine.

Mary    12:15  
Did you talk to him, then?

John    12:17  
Yeah.

Mary    12:17  
What did he say?

John    12:19  
I don't know, it didn't go very well. It's hard to  
talk about

Mary    12:19  
You were gone so long, you must have talked  
a lot.

John    12:20  
I guess.

Mary    12:21  
Is that all you did? Talked?

Mary    12:22  
I just find that a bit hard to believe, knowing  
you're uncomfortable talking about this kind  
of thing.

Mary    12:30  
Please don't lie about it. You're not a liar.

John    12:31  
Mary, I am so sorry.

Mary    12:31  
I know.

John    12:31  
I can't think straight now that he's back. I  
don't understand anything any more.

John    12:32  
It's no excuse

John    12:32  
I didn't mean to hurt you. I understand if that  
means nothing to you right now

Mary    12:32  
No, I know you didn't.

Mary    12:33  
So what does this mean?

John    12:33  
It means I fucked up and ended up even  
more confused than before. I guess that's my  
punishment for doing this to you. I'm so  
sorry.

John    12:34  
Look, I didn't think this would happen. I didn't  
think straight. I know that doesn't help at all,  
but I just want you to know… this has nothing  
to do with you.

Mary    12:34  
I know it doesn't. I know you must have been  
very upset to be able to do this. You're a  
good man, John. The best I've known.

John    12:35  
No, don't say that. This was not ok.

Mary    12:35  
No, it's not ok, but I know this isn't you. You're  
not the kind of person who cheats on his  
girlfriend.

John    12:36  
You don't have to say those things to me,  
Mary. I messed up, and you get to be angry  
about that. I don't want you to be kind to me  
right now.

Mary    12:36  
I guess I'm more sad than angry. For both of  
us, I think.

John    12:36  
Please, don't think about me and my feelings.  
I'm the one who messed up.

Mary    12:37  
I can't help it, I'm just not a selfish person. I  
know what an honest man you are, and I just  
keep thinking… how sad you must have been  
to let something like this happen. And how  
much it's going to gall you.

John    12:38  
It is, but it's not something you should need  
to think about.

Mary    12:38  
I'm your life partner. It means we do this  
together. It means everything that hits you,  
will also hit me. I can't help it, I just care  
about you so deeply.

John    12:40  
I care about you too. I feel awful for letting  
this happen

Mary    12:40  
Look, this is a terribly difficult time. You will  
get through it, WE will get through it.

John    12:43  
I don't know what to say. You are far too kind  
to me, I don't deserve it

Mary    12:44  
Yes, you do. I know you, my love, and I see  
you through whatever you're dealing with and  
whatever mistakes you make. I'll love you  
whatever happens, you know. For as long as  
you let me.

John    12:44  
Of course I'll let you. Don't know what I've  
done to ever deserve you, but I'll do  
everything I can to keep you.

John    12:44  
And I love you too. Of course. I'm sorry.

Mary    12:45  
I know, my love.

John    12:47  
How are you feeling? Is there anything I can  
do for you?

Mary    12:48  
I'm fine. Sad, yes, but I'm not worried about it  
happening again or anything.

John    12:48  
Of course, I wouldn't do that to you.

Mary    12:48  
It isn't really about me, though. It's about you,  
and it's about him. You know now, what kind  
of a person he is. I trust you will make a  
decision based on what's good for you.

John    12:51  
I'm so sorry you're caught in the middle of  
this.

Mary    12:51  
I don't think I am, really. This is something  
from your past, you just need to process it  
again and move on. I'll be here for you when  
you do that, love.

John    12:53  
I don't know if you could say that. I mean, I  
thought it was in the past, but he's here now

Mary    12:53  
Yes, HE is, but what you had together, that  
can hardly be here now, can it?

John    12:53  
I don't know.

John    12:53  
I mean, no, everything is different and… well I  
don't know how I could look past what he did,  
you know

Mary    12:53  
Nobody should expect you to. Not after that.  
He's a maniac, doing this to you.

Mary    12:54  
Or did you mean you want to? Let the whole  
thing slide?

John    12:54  
No, of course I wouldn't let it slide.

Mary    12:55  
I think one thing that does scare me is he'll  
try to take you back by appealing to what you  
had before. That he used sex to try to lure  
you in again and make you forget about what  
he did.

John    12:55  
That's not really what it was

Mary    12:55  
Are you sure? I'm sorry, but he has fooled you  
before. I'm worried about you. I don't want  
you to be drawn in again.

John    12:56  
Don't worry about that, I won't let that  
happen. I'm not going to just forget what he  
did, and I'll never be able to forgive him.

Mary    12:56  
So it wasn't some kind of make up sex?

John    12:56  
No!

John    12:56  
No

John    12:56  
No, I don't know what it was, I'm sorry

Mary    12:57  
Because I don't know if I could stand him  
coming back into your life, knowing how  
much he hurt you, and waiting for him to  
break you again. I don't know what I'd do if I  
saw him, to be honest.

Mary    12:57  
And I know I said I'm fine, but I have no desire  
to picture… you know

John    12:57  
No, of course not, God. No. No, he isn't  
welcome here.

Mary    12:58  
Good, because I wouldn't want to stand in a  
position where you choose between him and  
me. I'm not as clever as he is, I can't  
manipulate you into staying with me, I don't  
stand a chance if you start letting him in  
again. I guess that does scare me a bit.

John    12:59  
That's not what this is. It's not a choice  
between you and him, no. How could it be,  
when he has broken me completely, and you  
are this amazing understanding woman…

John    12:59  
I love you, I mean. That's something I have to  
fight for

Mary    12:59  
Good. Then I trust you will.

Mary    13:04  
Salmon for dinner, then?

John    13:04  
Do you still want to?

Mary    13:04  
Of course.

Mary    13:05  
If you want to.

John    13:05  
No, of course!

John    13:05  
I'll see you then


	10. 24th June: Blog Draft

I don't sleep in our bed any more. Not since the night I saw Sherlock. Just can't bring myself to lie down beside Mary.

I mean she's great. Supportive. Didn't even blame me for cheating on her, which makes me feel like crap. I don't deserve her. No idea how I have managed to get such a wonderful woman. She's far too good for me, and if I want to keep her, I'd better be very careful. Can't believe I'm putting this genuinely good person through something like this, and over someone like _him_.

She's a person who says nice things about me when she finds out I've cheated on her. He's a person who listens to my pleading for him for three years without saying a word in return.

 

But after… after. Each memory has become vivid with new life. I remember how he _moved_ , how he _smelled_ , how he _breathed_ when we slept next to each other. He was my anchor. He

It's over, I can't have that any more, and it's fine. I want to be with Mary. I want stability. I want

But I don't want to sleep in our bed. I just – I don't want to sleep.


	11. 25th June: Texts

Mary    14:00  
Hey, how are you feeling?

John    14:04  
Fine. You know, tired. But fine.

Mary    14:04  
You know you can talk to me about this.

John    14:04  
Yeah I know. But I can handle it.

Mary    14:05  
I'm sure you can. It's just, I'm here to support  
you, you know.

John    14:06  
I just don't want to drag you into this any  
deeper than I already have.

Mary    14:06  
Don't worry about that. You need someone  
right now.

Mary    14:06  
Well, I'm someone.

John    14:06  
Thanks.

Mary    14:07  
So, has he contacted you again?

John    14:07  
No.

Mary    14:07  
Maybe that's for the best?

John    14:07  
Yeah, definitely. I mean, he respected that I  
didn't want to speak to him.

Mary    14:07  
That's good. Let's hope he keeps respecting  
you.

John    14:08  
That wasn't usually his thing, but.

Mary    14:08  
I know, love. It's good that you're at least  
prepared for that. If he comes back, I mean.

John    14:08  
God, I don't know what I would say to him at  
this point.

Mary    14:09  
Greet him with a door in his face, maybe? ;)

John    14:09  
Ha. Maybe.

John    14:10  
Sometimes I wonder if I should try talking to  
him one last time though. You know, hear  
him out, find some closure.

Mary    14:10  
If you think you need that.

John    14:10  
You don't think it's a good idea?

Mary    14:11  
I'm just worried about what he might do,  
John. When you went to him last time, you  
ended up having sex. If you let him in even a  
little bit… I just think maybe he'll take  
advantage of that.

John    14:11  
I wouldn't sleep with him again, I hope you  
know that.

Mary    14:11  
That's not the worst thing I can imagine  
happening.

Mary    14:12  
Worse would be if he tried to sneak into your  
life again by telling more lies. We both know  
how that ends, and it would break me to see  
you like that again.

John    14:14  
It's just that I still don't know what happened.

Mary    14:14  
Do you think it would feel better if you knew?

John    14:15  
I suppose that depends entirely on what the  
story is.

Mary    14:17  
To be honest, I don't see how it matters. He  
made you watch him commit suicide, John.  
A violent suicide. Then he deliberately didn't  
tell you he was still alive. When I met you,  
you were broken. He did that to you, he chose  
to let you live like that.

John    14:18  
I know. Haven't forgotten that, actually.

Mary    14:18  
I'm sorry, I'm just looking out for you. John,  
you're not thinking about letting him off the  
hook, are you?

John    14:19  
No, I told you, I wouldn't be able to do that.

John    14:19  
I just don't know what to do.

John    14:20  
What would you do?

Mary    14:21  
I would do everything to stay away from  
someone who had treated me like that. As  
hard as it would be, I would try to be honest  
with myself and acknowledge that I had been  
thoroughly betrayed, and I would make sure  
that it'd never ever happen again.

John    14:23  
At some point I really thought he cared, you  
know? About more than his games.

Mary    14:23  
And now?

John    14:23  
Now I don't know.

Mary    14:23  
Yes, you do. He wanted you to believe he  
cared. And now you know it was all just a  
game to him.

John    14:25  
I just miss it all so much. Not the  
relationship, but the cases and everything.  
Sometimes I wish we could find our way past  
this and at least continue as friends

Mary    14:25  
And do you believe it's possible to find your  
way past this?

John    14:25  
Not really, no.

Mary    14:25  
No, and even if you did, you can't trust him.  
You know for a fact this kind of thing will  
always happen if you keep seeing Sherlock  
Holmes.

John    14:26  
I know.

Mary    14:26  
Don't let him tempt you into thinking  
otherwise. Please take care of yourself.

John    14:26  
Yeah, I'm really trying.

Mary    14:26  
I know.

John    14:27  
There was a time when I was desperate for  
him to come back and tell me it was all a  
plan. It's not easy to just let go now that has  
happened.

Mary    14:27  
I understand that. But deep down you know  
that if you let him back into your life, he will  
hurt you again.

John    14:27  
Yeah

Mary    14:28  
He isn't good for you and he never has been.  
I know love is blind, and that's why you let it  
get this far. But he's a sociopath, John. This  
was always going to happen sooner or later.  
At least you see it now and can make sure it  
never happens again.

John    14:29  
Yeah, you're right. I know you're right. I need  
to keep my head straight.

Mary    14:30  
Do you promise me you will look after  
yourself?

John    14:30  
Yeah, I promise.

John    14:30  
Thanks

Mary    14:31  
Just helping you come to a healthy decision.  
I love you.

John    14:31  
Love you too


	12. 26th June: Blog Draft

I wonder if anyone else knew. Mycroft, for sure. But would that be enough to pull the whole thing off? What about all the witnesses? I saw him fall until he disappeared behind the ambulance station. There were people on that side of the road – they saw. Whatever happened there, they saw.

And then they wouldn't let me examine him. Oh, fucking hell.

Yeah, they must've known. Wish I could remember their faces but they're all blank, I don't know who they were.

It must have been hard to keep their poker face. They saw how I reacted, how I swallowed the lie without question like some idiot. Laughable, really. And Sherlock. Lying there painted with blood and staring at the sky, he must have thought how stupid his boyfriend was.

And Mycroft. I saw him at the funeral. He looked the same as he always does. Didn't say a word to anyone. Just sat there and stared. He must've been so bored.

Sherlock's parents weren't there. They must have known too.

They're his parents, of course they were more important than me. But I thought

I don't even understand what I thought any more. Clearly I was wrong.

 

I wish I could at least stop missing him so maddeningly. Even though I _know_ now what kind of person he is, I miss him. Against all better judgement, I miss our relationship. I know I can't trust him, I know I can never give in and let him do this to me again. He is the last person I would want a relationship with. If I want to keep the good thing I actually do have now, I need to stop thinking about this.

He told all those people, but he didn't tell me. That's all I need to know, right there.

He's not what I remember. My Sherlock doesn't exist and never did.


	13. 6th July: Blog Draft

I feel like I have no skin. Everything is too bright and too harsh. Hurting my insides.

At the same time I feel hollow. I walk around, work, eat, talk to people, laugh, and it just echoes inside me.

Nothing really sticks. Everything is slipping out of my fingers.

Even after all this time.

So I guess this is what it's gonna be. This is what it is. This is what I have and I'll just… take it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fear not, my dear readers - I'll be back in a few days with more.


	14. 26th July: Blog Draft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, four new chapters! I still have more finished, but again I'll give it a few days. I'll be back soon, I promise.

I returned the ring to the jeweller today.

 

Thing is, I never let go of Sherlock. That wasn't- that wasn't part of the arrangement.

No, I decided to love them both. Because I would never stop loving Sherlock. He would never stop being the person I should have married and spent the rest of my life with. We had so little time, but given more, I would have proposed. I don't know what he would have said. But that's not the point, the point is that even though we never did that, I had in my heart already promised myself to him. I may not have said the vows out loud, but I was going to be with him until the day I died. Not the day _he_ died, that's not how it works.

It's not forbidden to find someone new when your spouse dies. But it doesn't change the fact that you're married to that person. You carry them with you. You move on, you love again if you're lucky. But you never divorce that first person.

Sherlock was with me all the time. I missed him, all the time, I loved him, all the time. Mary is kind and we have fun, sometimes, she is… life. But Sherlock is a part of me. She knew it, and I knew it, and it was fine as long as he was dead.

It's impossible when he's alive. Because what I wrote before isn't true – faking a death isn't the same as breaking up. That's not the process I have gone through. And now suddenly everything is so bloody crowded – I can't have Mary while Sherlock owns my heart.

 

It's so cold in the flat. Every time Mary comes into the room my stomach cramps. When she talks to me, I have no breath to answer. I haven't kissed her in… I don't even know how long.

She's wrong about Sherlock. I mean she's right, but she's wrong. I know I can't trust him. I know he has hurt me beyond repair. I know we can never get anything we had back. In that, she's right.

But I was just reading through my unpublished drafts. Haven't been able to bring myself to do it since he died, and it took some liquid courage. And… well, that's not all fake. No way.

She doesn't get to take away what we had before. She doesn't know, _no one but me_ _knows_ how he acts when he's in my arms. He's not a sociopath. He's a person who thinks the night sky is beautiful, who loves dogs, who gets shy at innuendos, and who looks at me like I'm the whole world when he touches me. He's the cruellest man I know, but he's also all that.

And I will never love anyone else like I loved him. What we had, what it was… yes, what it was, was love. It's… incomparable to what I have with Mary. I don't know if I have anything with Mary, really.

It would have been enough, if I had been able to make myself keep forgetting. But he was inside me, and his face was smooth and achingly beautiful, and he held onto me like I was all that kept him alive. I can't forget.

I don't want him. I can't. But I don't think I want Mary either. Or anyone else.


	15. 1st August: Texts

Mary    14:35  
Hello, how are you doing?

Mary    14:35  
You've forgotten a few things at the flat. Do  
you want to come and get them? I'm home  
this afternoon.

John    14:56  
Hey, how are you?

John    14:56  
No, it's fine. You can just throw them out.

Mary    15:03  
You sure? There are some old textbooks,  
looks like they're from uni, and the Dan  
Brown books, plus a photo album that seems  
to belong to Mrs Hudson.

 

John    19:11  
Are you still home?

Mary    19:18  
Yeah

John    19:19  
I'll be there in forty


	16. 6th August: Texts

Molly 10:12  
Hello John, you all right?

John 10:49  
Molly, hi. Fine, thank you.

John 10:51  
Hope you're well too.

Molly 10:55  
I was wondering how Sherlock is doing? I  
worry about him.

John 11:02  
Sherlock is dead.

Molly 11:03  
Oh. It's okay, I'm in on it.

John 11:04  
What do you mean, you're in on it?

Molly 11:04  
Well I helped him.

Molly 11:08  
Did he not tell you?

Molly 11:16  
Shit, I'm so sorry.

 

Molly 16:43  
John, please don't be angry with me.

John 17:02  
It's not your fault. He can be very persuasive.  
I'm sure you had a reason not to tell me

Molly 17:05  
I did. He told me both of your lives depended  
on it. Has he really not told you this?

John 17:08  
We haven't had the chance to speak. I don't  
really care. Sorry, I don't want to talk about  
this

Molly 17:10  
I don't mean to intrude, but I saw him  
yesterday, and got the impression he hasn't  
told you about what happened?

John 17:15  
It doesn't matter. Please leave it

Molly 17:19  
I'm not going to do that, sorry. I helped him  
fake his death, and then I watched you suffer.  
I owe it to you to tell you why. Please will you  
hear me out?

John 17:43  
Fine then

Molly 17:44  
Thank you.

Molly 17:50  
He came to me the night before he fell. He  
said the story Moriarty was creating about  
him would end with his suicide. He asked me  
to help him set it up, so he wouldn't be forced  
to do it for real. I helped find a corpse looking  
like him, and fake the records.

Molly 17:59  
I only met him briefly after it was done. He  
was so upset he didn't speak coherently.  
From what I understand, he met Moriarty on  
the roof, and Moriarty told him that if he  
didn't jump, then Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and  
you would be killed. He had snipers out,  
ready to shoot at any moment. Moriarty  
killed himself in front of Sherlock, so he  
couldn't get him to call off the order.

Molly 18:05  
Before Sherlock left, he practically pushed  
me up against a wall and said I could under  
no circumstances tell you what we'd done. If  
you found out he was still alive, Moriarty's  
people would know, and they would come  
after you and Sherlock. I have no doubt he  
meant it, John.

Molly 18:08  
He left to take down Moriarty's network, so  
that he could come back to London without  
endangering himself or anyone else. A few  
months, one year at the most, was what he  
told me. I don't know what happened, he  
won't talk about it, but it didn't go as planned.

Molly 18:11  
I don't know the details of anything. But I do  
know that he was devastated to leave you,  
John. He fell to save your life, and he was  
away for three years to make sure you could  
be together again.

Molly 18:16  
I know this must be terrible for you, three  
years is a very long time and you have Mary  
now. But please, talk to him about this. To be  
frank, he deserves it.

 

John 23:24  
Thank you


	17. 8th August: Messages in a Note Book

Hi.

I think we need to speak now, Sherlock, but I don't think I can. There's this thing, though, that Harry and I did when we were kids and had a really bad fight, and I thought maybe we could use it now. Sometimes it was too painful to talk something through or apologise to her face, so our mother came up with the idea that we write to each other instead. We'd sit at the table and slide the note back and forth between us, until the air was cleared enough that we could actually speak.

I was thinking, maybe we could do the same thing. If you let me in we can sit in the kitchen and just write to each other on here. Would you think that's silly? I hope not.

 

_Yes. Fine. Good idea._

_Thank you for coming._

 

Okay. That's good.

Molly texted me a couple of days ago.

 

_I know._

_I believe she told you the overarching circumstances. Thank you for listening. Please do not hold her silence against her; she did exactly as I requested, and it saved the lives of many._

 

Yeah. As far as I understand, you did this to protect Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and me. So we wouldn't get killed.

 

_That is correct. Three snipers were aiming at the three of you, ready to shoot if they did not see me fall._

 

 ~~It doesn't e~~ ~~I still don't~~

When did you realise that's what you'd have to do?

 

_After our visit with Kitty Riley._

 

Right. When you went away without even giving me a look, leaving me worried and confused.

 

_Yes, because if you had seen the look on my face, you would never have let me out of your sight, and you would now be long dead._

 

How can you be sure of that? I don't get it. We were in the middle of a crisis, and I was your partner, but you went to see Molly Hooper instead of talking to me. Molly Hooper?!

 

_Yes. My friend, Molly Hooper. My reliable friend who thinks she is nothing, and so everyone else thinks so as well. There is more to Molly than meets the eye, which was advantageous for me in that situation. It was the practical choice._

 

 ~~The practical choice? You~~ I just wish you'd trusted me enough to tell me too.

 

_It was not a question of trust. I chose her because I knew Moriarty would have overlooked her. He would not think to involve her in his scheme in any other way than briefly pretending to be her boyfriend to make an impression on me. You, John, were the last person I could tell – remember the fifth pip? The grand finale of his first game? That was you. You were the key to my heart, and Moriarty knew it, as did everyone who had ever seen me look at you. You were my highest priority at that time. I could not risk involving you any more than you already were by being involved with me._

 

But I had chosen to be involved with you. I wanted to help. I didn't mind the fifth bloody pip, Sherlock, at least I was there and could help you. This wasn't just about you and him, it was about me too. I was involved from the very beginning, and I wanted to be there to the end. Doing something. ~~Not just~~

 

_I was not certain I would be able to pull off the stunt. I could not foresee the exact conditions prior to my arrival on the roof. If I involved you, and you understood that there was a great risk of it all ending with my actual death, you would have intervened. I was not willing to put you in the line of fire._

 

That wasn't for you to decide.

 

_That is the decision I made._

 

Yeah, well it still doesn't explain any of this. We both survived. And Molly said Moriarty killed himself, three years ago. His game is over, and you still didn't reach out to me. How ~~the~~ ~~f~~ could you do that? Am I just not your “highest priority” any more?

 

_You are not comprehending the magnitude and the power of Moriarty's network. There were eyes on you, John, and I suspect there still are. They know me; they know there was a possibility I would find a way out of it. If they did not see horror and heartbreak on your face, they would have doubted. If they doubted for a second, a bullet would have pierced your skull in the next._

 

So that's why you let me watch. That's why you waited for me to arrive until you jumped, so that I could play my fucking part in this insane game by having my heart ripped out of my chest. Screw you

 

_You are letting anger and hurt cloud your judgement. What I did was the only option, and if you would try for a moment to think clearly, you would see it._

 

No. You don't get to do that. You don't get to come here, after three years, and tell me I'm irrational for being upset about this. Emotions are not a flaw, Sherlock. They are what allows us to be compassionate and care for other people. But of course you wouldn't understand that, because you need to “think clearly” – well, look where it gets us.

 

_You are being unfair now, John. Does it somehow help not to listen to what I tell you?_

 

What you tell me makes no bloody sense! I get it, there were snipers, there were people watching, but then what? I can understand your choice, I can understand why you didn't talk to me even if it pisses me off, and I would have given you months, I would have given you a whole bloody year. I waited forever, but you never came back. If you had the slightest understanding of how that felt for me, if you cared about that, you would have found another way.

 

_There was no other way. None that did not risk your life._

_I am sorry for the agony that I have caused you. I cannot, however, tell you I am sorry for the course of action that I chose. You are alive. That's what matters._

 

No, Sherlock, that's not all that matters. What matters is I was your boyfriend and we were supposed to talk to each other and help each other. What matters is I cared more about you than anyone else, and I won't believe you didn't know that. There must have been another way.

 

_And if there had been one, how can you believe that I would not have pursued it? You can be angry all you want, you have every right to be, but you cannot be so foolish that you think this was what I wanted._

_It was you or me. You say it's such a terrible thing that I made you watch – the alternative was me watching you die like a dog in the street. I could not do it any more than you could._

_The difference in these two scenarios is, of course, that you would have been actually dead. I had a shot at getting out of the situation with both our hearts still beating. I needed your heart beating, John. I will not be the reason for that heart to stop beating._

 

Well, you were.

 

_Not in the literal sense. Do not tell me that doesn't matter, because it does. You cannot look back on the pain you have endured and wish the same for me._

 

See, that's what gets me. You knew how much I suffered. You got my texts, don't tell me you didn't understand. I begged you to come back, I asked you if it was a scheme, I told you I loved you, and you still didn't answer. I can't understand how you could sit there and know of my pain, and let me just… I don't know how you could leave me like that. I would never have been able to leave you like that.

 

_You are saying this as if you think this was not difficult for me too. Can you imagine, John, how it felt for me, to get those texts and to be unable to answer them? You seem to think I did not return your devotion. Let me make it clear that leaving you behind is the hardest thing I have ever forced myself to do. ~~I spent every day~~_

 

What? How did you spend every day?

 

_Thinking about you. It was the only thing that kept me sane._

 

Sherlock… What were you doing?

Fuck, Sherlock, tell me.

 

_Dismantling Moriarty's network._

 

What does that mean, exactly, dismantling?

 

_You know what it means._

 

Jesus Christ. Why did you have to be the one to do that?

 

_Because I am Sherlock Holmes._

 

And I am Dr Watson. ~~I'm supp~~ I was supposed to be with you. I could have helped you, I could have protected you. I can't believe you didn't let me protect you.

 

_I was protecting  you. Your part was to grieve._

 

Well that didn't save you from torture, or whatever the hell happened to you!

 

_It's nothing._

 

Don't you bloody say that. You're seriously hurt, Sherlock. You need to care about that!

 

_Why do you care? You wish I were dead._

 

I… I didn't mean that. I'm sorry I said it, I was so angry

I am angry, but I do care. Molly told me you said you'd be gone one year at the most. What happened?

 

_I made a miscalculation. One year's hiatus seemed manageable. But as I started, new branches revealed themselves everywhere I went. Eventually I realised that I might need twice as much time as initially estimated. I took a risk to speed things up. The operation went wrong and I got captured. It took me eleven months to orchestrate my escape. I am lucky they never found out who I was._

 

Jesus. ~~You can't~~ ~~I wish~~ I've bloody told you not to take risks like that, especially when  I'm not there. ~~The idea of you~~ How could you do that?

 

_The thought of leaving you thinking I was dead for two years was unacceptable. I am aware of the irony._

 

Sorry, I need a minute

I don't know what to say, Sherlock. I'm so fucking angry, I can't breathe any more. Now you're telling me this story of how you sacrificed yourself for me and it's like I should be grateful, but how can I be grateful for the worst thing that's happened to me? I can't thank you for the thing that ripped you away from me

 

_I'm not asking you to thank me, John. I'm not asking anything of you._

 

No? Then why did you come back by sending me a stupid TEXT to stop me getting engaged? I'd texted you for years, and that's what made you finally answer, you selfish bastard.

 

_Oh. Yes. That. I have been meaning to apologise. It was a mistake. I should not have revealed myself prematurely. It was an unnecessary risk for all involved, as the mission is not quite finished yet. There are some loose ends in London that I am currently working on tying up._

 

Then why did you do it?

 

_You had not mentioned Mary in any of your texts. I was unaware of her existence, and your text that evening, I regret to admit, made it difficult for me to make a rational decision as to my course of action. As I have previously stated, I shall endeavour hereafter to leave you alone. Oh, and my congratulations to you and Mary._

 

Stop it. Why are you talking like this? Stop being so bloody formal! You talk like it's all the same to you. You sent that text in a panic, it can't be all the same to you.

 

_What would you like me to say? Beg you to leave her and take me back? You resent me. I do not want you to take me back. I want you to move on with your life and the new happiness you have found in it, as long as I am not forced to witness it. I made sure you are alive, and you are. Do with that life as you please._

 

But I'm not happy. How are you so thick? How have you not deduced this??? We broke up. I can't be with her. I can't be with anyone but you.

 

_And you can't be with me._

 

You don't want that any longer, then. You think that was a convenient way to break up?

 

_That is not what I said. I said you can't be with me. I see it when you look at me._

 

But what about you?

 

_Make a deduction._

 

No, TALK TO ME, SHERLOCK.

 

_What difference will it make, John?_

 

You know what, you're right. It doesn't matter what you say. You stood on the edge and told me to keep my eyes fixed on you when you jumped. You asked me to watch that, you asked me like it was something I had to do if I loved you. And you must have known I did. Still you left me with no answers, no idea why you wanted to die. We were together, Sherlock, we had been together for less than four months, and those months were the happiest of my life. Then you took your life and I hated myself for not having noticed you weren't happy.

You could have said something. SOMETHING, ANYTHING. Not to let me believe that.

 

_I'm sorry. Those months were the happiest for me too_

 

Then why didn't you SAY SOMETHING TO ME? How could you let me think that? Whatever the stakes, how could you let me think that? Why did you choose that spot?!

 

_~~I didn't think~~ I don't know._

 

Fuck, Sherlock, tell me.

 

_I went to see Moriarty. I wanted a place where I felt safe. When I could not take you with me, the memory of you from Valentine's Day helped me stay calm. I didn't think about how you would react to that choice. I am sorry._

 

Sorry isn't good enough. Sorry doesn't begin to cover it. SORRY. For letting me watch that,

 

_John, I didn't realise how you felt about me._

 

How could you not see that?? You see EVERYTHING, and you didn't see that.

 

_Your opinion of me is too high. I don't see everything. If I did, I would have prevented this from happening before it went this far. But Moriarty played me like a game and when I realised what the end goal was, it was too late._

 

I would never have been able to do this, you know. If the roles were reversed. I wouldn't have left you like that, I wouldn't have made you witness it. I wouldn't have been able to walk around for three years knowing you mourned me. Never. I guess that's only for someone who can so very conveniently distance themselves from all the disgusting “sentiment”.

 

_STOP IT. You know. You saw. The death was an act, but nothing else was. Not the fear. Not the tears. Do not for one second think this was somehow easy for me to do._

 

You say that like it's something I should know. I know nothing, Sherlock. Since you came back I feel like I can't trust anything I see. You set that scene up for me to watch like a play, making sure every last detail was real enough for me to believe it. I have no idea what tears were real and what weren't.

 

_I had one chance to get every last detail right, and if I failed, it meant my death, or the death of 75% of all the friends I've ever managed to make. The fear was real._

_The phone call was my farewell to the man I treasure above anything else. The tears were real._

_Do not mock me for my former hesitance in letting sentiment rule my head. This was the reason that I made the decision not to care about anyone. You showed me what life could be if I let myself feel it, and it was so addictive that I could not go back. This is the result, and all it has led to is that I now, more than ever, treasure friendship and love. Not for the briefest moment during those three years have I been able to distance myself from the sentiment you think I find “disgusting”. And I do not even want to, John. I do not ever want to be that alone again._

 

Why. Why are you doing this? Why do you show up after three bloody years and tell me these things? Do you think this is going to make anything easier for me somehow?

 

_You came to me and wanted to talk about it. I am answering your questions. I fail to see what I am doing wrong._

 

You fail to see – You know what, this isn't helping.

 

_At least you know now._

 

Yeah, that doesn't fucking help either.


	18. 11th August: Blog Draft

It's _worse_ knowing why he did it, because I can't even hate him now.

Knowing the reason for all this doesn't change shit. He still killed himself in front of me, he still left and let me break apart, I still lost the love of my life. Now I don't even know where to aim my anger and I'm afraid it will soon rip me apart.

It's worse now, because now I know Sherlock is hurting as well. He's been bloody tortured, and he's been all alone, and I'm afraid he means he's somehow done it all for me. The pain I feel for him is almost bigger than my own. But I can't do anything about that either, I can't comfort him and it's too late to help him, and saying it will all be fine is the most tragic lie I can think of. Nothing is fine and it's obvious nothing will be.

And I have no idea what he's doing now. He's doing _something_ and I'm not there, and Molly told me she's worried about him and I don't know what she means. I wish more than anything that I could just go there and hold him until he breaks, and stay forever, touch him for every second of the rest of my life.

But it hurts too much to stand it. Everything with him, it hurts too much.

Maybe this is why I waited two months to let him explain. Because I do know my Sherlock. I do know he wouldn't do this without good reason. I let Mary talk me into staying away from him because if I were to find out the real reason, where would that leave me? How am I supposed to stop being angry about this? I can't see that ever happening.


	19. 14th August: Texts

John    11:03  
Hello, I just wanted to ask what's happening  
with the whole dismantling the network  
business? Sherlock said you have some  
loose ends to wrap up in London. John

Mycroft    11:03  
Why don't you ask the leader of the operation  
himself? MH

John    11:04  
Come on, I know you're as involved in this as  
Sherlock is.

Mycroft    11:04  
I do not wish to be a mediator between the  
two of you. MH

John    11:04  
That's not what I'm asking you to. Don't tell  
him I've contacted you, just fill me in on how  
it's going.

Mycroft    11:05  
I fail to see how that is any concern of yours.  
My brother's mission is top secret and there  
is no reason you should be informed of the  
details. MH

John    11:07  
I was very involved in this whole thing before,  
and I still am. Sherlock mentioned I might  
still be on their radar. I deserve to know.

Mycroft    11:07  
As you have chosen to cut off your  
association with my brother, there should be  
no concern regarding your safety. Live your  
life normally and no suspicion will be raised.  
Now if you'll excuse me, I have an urgent  
matter to attend to. Good day. MH

John    11:09  
Fine, I don't care about my safety, I want to  
know about his.

John    11:10  
Is he doing this alone?

John    11:10  
Is he taking stupid risks?

John    11:27  
Please tell me, I'm worried out of my mind.

John    11:38  
What is this silent treatment, then? Are you  
bitter because I didn't protect him like I was  
supposed to? Because you didn't either.

John    11:43  
Look, I wish I was there to help him finish  
this. It's killing me that he's out there doing  
this alone.

Mycroft    11:43  
If you are so concerned, I do not see why you  
are not there helping him wrap this up. MH

John    11:43  
Well, if you don't see that, you're even less  
human than I thought

John    11:46  
Please. I know he's been hurt before. Please  
tell me you're looking after him.

Mycroft    11:46  
You know perfectly well he would not let me  
do that. MH

Mycroft    11:46  
But I am doing the best I can. MH

John    11:47  
Thanks, I guess.

Mycroft    11:47  
Please let it be clear that it is not for your  
sake I am doing that, Dr Watson. MH

John    11:49  
You know HE left ME, right?

Mycroft    11:49  
And then, he came back. MH


	20. 20th August: Texts

Sherlock    12:00  
Only one piece of the network remains. We  
are planning an operation tomorrow. Should  
you desire to take part in it, your assistance  
would be most welcome. SH

John    12:14  
Meaning what?

Sherlock    12:14  
See previous message. SH

John    12:15  
Yeah, can you stop being so formal? Why are  
you inviting me?

Sherlock    12:15  
You have expressed your frustration over not  
being involved in an issue that has been  
fateful for you. I am presenting you with the  
option to take part in the last act. SH

John    12:29  
You're asking me to do what, exactly?

Sherlock    12:29  
What you always did. Work by my side and  
keep your gun ready. SH

John    12:42  
And what if I don't come? Will you do this on  
your own then?

Sherlock    12:42  
Largely, yes. SH

John    12:42  
Yeah, you can't do that.

Sherlock    12:42  
May I remind you, John, that you are not here  
any more. What I do and don't do is now my  
own business. SH

John    13:08  
Do you think we could even do it now? We  
can't have the whole thing blow up just  
because we're

John    13:08  
Fighting, or whatever

Sherlock    13:09  
Neither you nor I know how it would play out.  
Perhaps it would bring us both some closure.  
SH

John    14:36  
What's the plan?

Sherlock    14:36  
We are finalising it in Mycroft's office at 10  
PM. SH

John    14:38  
I'll be there.


	21. 22nd August: Undelivered Letter

Sherlock,

 

You won't get this letter either. It's probably silly, but I wanted to write. Turns out I really do need it. My laptop is at the flat, and I will not write my blog on your laptop, so. Pen and paper it is.

I don't know if this notebook is yours or mine – I thought it was mine, because I've written in it before, but now I found it in the clutter on your desk. Last time I saw it, I wrote a secret letter to you the morning after our first time together. Come to think of it, that's probably why I left it at 221B when I moved out.

Seeing you again in Mycroft's office the other day, it physically hurt. Like getting beaten up by every breath I've taken without you, by every breath you've taken without telling me, by every wound on your back, by every word you wrote me. I thought we'd never manage it. In order to carry out a plan like that, you need to _breathe_. I don't think I took a single breath during that meeting.

And then… the gun slotting into place in my hand like the piece of a puzzle. Our steps falling into sync despite our height difference. Our hearts pumping faster, making it easier and easier to breathe. Fresh air in our lungs, clarity, unity, trust.

Trust? Isn't that the strangest thing you've heard?

For hours, I didn't think about anything but survival, yours and mine. Every little move I made was for the success of the case.

I felt light. Like the shackles around me were gone for the first time in three years.

We moved, breathed, ran as one. We finished it. As one.

You smiled at me, I don't know if you knew. I would have cried at that if it wasn't for the remaining adrenalin, because I haven't seen your smile since before you died.

But in that moment, I think I smiled too.

 

There are no words, now. There is no celebration and no mourning. It's just… over.

Our bodies were still orbiting around each other. A magnetic field that somehow came to be during the case. I ended up at Baker Street. You were quiet, I was quiet, and our eyes only met once. I don't think we touched one single time.

I ended up in your bed. Two fully clothed bodies, shoes and everything, lying on top of the duvet. You on the far right, I on the far left, neither of us moving an inch the whole night.

But you breathed. We both breathed.

“Stay for breakfast”, you said, voice husky with sleep.

I stayed the whole day.

In a weird way, what I feel now is similar to what I felt that morning, the morning I wrote that other secret letter to you all those years ago. The connection to you. The awareness of your body moving around. The quiet after-ness that doesn't require terms. Just you and me and a certainty of something I don't even know what it is.

It's all silence and secret glances. I sit in my chair with a cup of tea. You lie on the sofa in your thinking pose. I scramble in the fridge to find something edible for lunch. You sit at the table staring into your microscope. We both pretend not to see the other's stolen looks.

It's not uncomfortable, it's… calm. We don't glance because we have something to say and don't know how, and not because we worry about what the other is thinking. We do it just to see, to observe the differences and to try to re-learn each other.

You are different, you know. You are more quiet. It's not just that you're without words, you _move_ quietly. It's different and it's the same, too. It's you, it really is you.

I like seeing you move. Sometimes when you walk through the room, it makes me feel off-kilter, but then it settles. It takes a bit for my body to remember what it's like when yours is there, but when it does remember, it feels right.

I think you feel this too.

Right now you're at the desk scrolling on your laptop. Your skin is pale, your hair is still ruffled from your pillow, your lips are demanding a lot more attention than I'm really willing to give. You're not asking what I'm writing. Maybe it's transparent. Maybe it's unimportant.

But I think I need to finish this letter now, and I think I need to break the silence. I think you're putting it off to stay in this quiet of ours, and I think I won't let you. I think I need to ask you if today is the day to resurrect Sherlock Holmes.

And then, I think I need to leave.

I don't know what that means. And I don't really feel like talking to you about it. So I'll just say: Goodbye, Sherlock, at least for now.

 

Your John


	22. 29th August: Published Blog Post

Well.

So yes.

You'll have seen the news.

As the trending hashtag says: #sherlocklives

First of all, I hope you saw the other news. The news that the police finally worked out that he was innocent. Everything I've said on this blog has been the truth and now everyone knows it. I just want to take a minute to thank those who commented on here saying that they still believed in him. It really helped.

Now, I've been trying to stay in the background in all this, but it seems I won't be left alone until I make some kind of statement, so here it is.

I don't know anything about what happened, apart from what Sherlock himself has already told the press. I wasn't in on this plan. As you can probably understand, this has all been hard on me, and I ask you to respect my wish to be kept out of this circus. No, I will not be moving back to Baker Street, and no, I will not “pick up my association with Sherlock Holmes”, as one reporter so tactfully put it. I have left that time in my life behind me and moved on.

What would help now is if you would all kindly leave me be. I will not give an interview, I will not update the blog any more, and if you have a case for Sherlock, you need to contact him and not me.

Cheers, you all.

John.


	23. 4th September: Texts

John    16:14  
Hey, what's up?

John    16:19  
Um, that was a bad opening, sorry.

John    16:23  
Just wondered how it's going?

John    16:25  
No, ignore me.

Sherlock    16:49  
Apologies. I was elbow-deep in a cancerous  
colon. SH

John    16:50  
Right.

John    16:50  
You, um… got something on, then?

Sherlock    16:50  
A case, yes. SH

John    16:52  
Got the cases going again? Nice.

Sherlock    16:52  
It turns out resurrection is good for business.  
SH

John    16:52  
Ha, right. Everyone wants Sherlock Holmes,  
huh?

Sherlock    16:52  
The media has taken a sharp turn and is now  
picturing me as a saint. Laughable. But  
lucrative. SH

John    16:54  
Yeah, you must not have had much alone  
time

Sherlock    16:54  
It has begun to taper off. And I have yet to  
encounter a paparazzi interested in  
cancerous colons. SH

John    16:57  
Is it a private client, then?

Sherlock    16:57  
Scotland Yard. There are three year's worth  
of cases that Lestrade and his imbeciles  
could not handle. SH

John    17:01  
You've met Lestrade, then.

Sherlock    17:01  
Naturally. SH

John    17:08  
What did he… say?

Sherlock    17:08  
He gave me quite the scolding on your  
behalf. SH

John    17:19  
Sorry, I don't know if I can do this

 

John    19:37  
Hey, do you need a hand? With the case?

Sherlock    19:38  
Solved it. SH

John    19:38  
Oh. Never mind.

Sherlock    19:38  
Although I am but fifteen minutes into the  
next one. SH

Sherlock    19:38  
A solid 7. SH

John    19:39  
Oh, okay.

John    19:40  
Any use for a doctor's opinion?

Sherlock    19:42  
Of course. Drop by at Baker Street any time.  
SH

John    19:42  
There in thirty.


	24. 29th September: Note in John's Pocket

tweezers

vinegar

wheat flour

food colouring

balloons - round, or Sherlock will kill me

pencils in 4 colours

crisps - the cheese ones he liked?

 

3 PM: 7,548  
 

Suspects: Susan, Dirk, Kristin, Carl, Amanda

Susan: victim's lover, Carl's student

Dirk: victim's father, Kristin's husband, Carl's nephew

Kristin: victim's grandmother, Dirk's wife, Amanda's sister, Carl's ex wife

Carl: victim's great uncle, Amanda's husband, Dirk's uncle, Kristin's ex husband, Susan's mentor

Amanda: victim's great aunt, Kristin's sister, Carl's wife

 _You should have made a drawing instead, John.  
_ Stay away from my personal notes, Sherlock.

4 PM: 6,861  
 

Kristin is also Susan's godmother – why withhold this? God this case

 

02072770452  
Chicken & prawn wonton soup without onions


	25. 1st October: Blog Draft

Been trying to go to sleep here in my old bed at 221B. I can't do it. I can't even close my eyes when I'm not hearing his breathing.

If I'm honest, I've slept at 221B a lot since we started working on cases again. I'm not here for all of them, far from it. But he seems to work more or less constantly. I've fallen asleep on the sofa often, in my armchair a few times, one time even on the floor. He's always been in the same room.

We don't talk about it, but I don't think he minds. I don't know if I mind, by the way. It's painful, being with him. Sometimes I have to leave in order to keep myself from hurting him, when the anger flares up.

But then I come back, and we work, and we work well. That amazes me over and over.

This morning, I decided to just admit I'm doing this and start packing an overnight bag. So now I have my laptop here, and therefore my blog, which is helpful.

I'll give sleeping another try.

 

 

 

 

Can't do it.

It's silent downstairs, and it's dark. I think I did hear him go into his bedroom. I think he's asleep in his bed and I just. Need to be there.

Not touch him, not… anything. Just need to be there.

I mean, his bed is big. I could bring my own duvet.

Ok I'm going down


	26. 2nd October: Blog Draft

He let me in.

He let me lie down beside him.

He pretended to be asleep.

He was on his back. His hair was falling back from his forehead. His eyelids were smooth. His cheekbones were even sharper in the darkness. His lips were slightly parted. His breathing was deep and peaceful. His duvet had slid down a bit and he was wearing his light grey pyjamas, wrinkled by his collarbones.

He let me watch him.

He let me sleep.


	27. 7th October: Texts

John    20:52  
Where are you?

John    21:12  
Did you go back to Bart's?

John    21:37  
Lestrade doesn't know either. Don't tell me  
you've gone off on your own with this case.

John    22:01  
Sherlock, where the fuck are you?

John    22:16  
Answer your damn phone, Sherlock, please.

John    22:30  
That's it, calling Mycroft

Sherlock    22:41  
Minor complication at victim's cousin's gym.  
All settled now. Meet me at Baker Street. SH

John    22:41  
Minor complication?? What the fuck does  
that mean???

John    22:41  
Why didn't you answer your phone?

Sherlock    22:42  
I was busy. SH

John    22:42  
You were BUSY. Getting shot at? Getting  
strangled? Being forced to kill yourself?

Sherlock    22:43  
John. SH

John    22:43  
No, don't John me.

John    22:43  
You can't do this, you can never bloody do  
this, do you understand me?

Sherlock    22:44  
I was not expecting any disturbance. SH

John    22:44  
You went to see a MURDER SUSPECT.

Sherlock    22:44  
He was not supposed to be there. SH

John    22:44  
But he was. And you didn't even tell anyone  
you were going there.

John    22:45  
You didn't tell me.

Sherlock    22:45  
I simply did not think it was important. SH

John    22:45  
Well IT WAS. IT'S IMPORTANT.

Sherlock    22:46  
All right. SH

John    22:46  
No, I can't believe you still don't understand.  
Are you going to keep doing this forever  
then?

Sherlock    22:46  
No. I did not think, John. I did not consider all  
the factors. SH

John    22:47  
No, you think you can just come back after  
three years and everything will be the same  
as it was. You think that was just a little blip  
in our lives and it won't change anything

Sherlock    22:47  
John, you know that is not true. SH

John    22:51  
You know what, this isn't working.

John    22:52  
I can't, I can't be around you, I just can't.

Sherlock    23:05  
I'm sorry, John. SH

Sherlock    23:11  
Forgive me. SH

Sherlock    23:20  
Are you on your way? SH

John    23:23  
No, I'm home. Let me sleep.

Sherlock    23:25  
All right. SH

Sherlock    23:32  
Goodnight, John. SH


	28. 10th October: Blog Draft

The truth is, I'm not angry.

My chest tells me to scream at him until he's deaf. My fists tell me to hammer into him until he's broken. My body contracts and tenses and boils until my skin can barely hold it in, it's too much pressure, it's all about to get out and then John Watson will be no more.

So I thought I was angry. I acted angry. But I'm not.

The truth, the very simple, inane truth, is I'm hurt.

I'm so hurt I can't stand it. I'm so hurt that my body sets itself on fire in order to get away from feeling it. I'm so unbearably sad that I want to curl into a tight ball at the bottom of the deepest well and cry until I am only water. It's the only way I see myself getting rid of this feeling in my chest; cry until I'm gone.

He left me. I loved him and he left me. It's just that simple and just that horrible.

I loved him and he's right here, I love him and he's right here, and I can't, I can't, and I'm so, so… He ruined it and I wish I could hate him for it, but I don't, I just love him, I love him, and so the hurt never goes away. He ruined it and I can see how much he regrets it. I can. But it doesn't matter. It just doesn't matter because I feel like the sorrow is eating my chest. I just can't.

It hurts so much to love him. And even so, I just keep… doing it. I love him. I love him. I love him. I


	29. 11th October: Emails

**From:** sherlock.holmes@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk **  
Date:** 11 October 2014 14:43  
**Subject:** An apology

Dear John,

I am writing to once again apologise. I am sorry that I left during our last case. I was swept along with it and I did not stop to think about the potential repercussions of my rash decision. I cannot defend my behaviour, and I understand how it must be difficult for you to trust me.

I will not beg you to come back, for I only want you to come if it is your wish to do so. Nevertheless, I want you to know that should you decide to work with me again, I will be more careful. I will not leave you behind, John, and it was never my conscious wish to do so. You might say this means nothing, and I can only answer that I now understand even more clearly the meaning this has for you, and that I care deeply about your well-being.

If you let me, I will do everything in my power to earn back your trust. Although I understand how my behaviour might lead you to think I do not take this seriously, that impression does not reflect my reality. I am acutely aware of our situation, and it is a matter that I mourn every day. Nothing is more important to me than repairing the damage done, to the greatest extent possible.

Please know that I value your contribution to the work tremendously. I also treasure your presence in 221B more than I can currently convey.

I do hope you are well, John.

 

Sincerely yours,

Sherlock Holmes

 

 

 **To:** sherlock.holmes@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk **  
Date:** 11 October 2014 22:02  
**Subject:** Re: An apology

Hi Sherlock.

Thank you for the email. Yes, it is very hard for me to trust you again, and the last case didn't exactly make it easier. I believe you when you say you didn't do it on purpose, but that's also what worries me a bit. I'm afraid you'll do it again by accident. I need to know you'll never hurt me like that again, but I know there's nothing you can do to guarantee me that. I just need to trust you, but I suppose that will take time.

Sometimes I feel like I want to put in that time. Sometimes I don't.

But I'll be sure to text you one day when I do.

Take care until then,

John


	30. 20th October: Blog Draft

He's like a drug.

And a lunatic. Sometimes I want nothing to do with him and I go away. Then I come back. Because it isn't true, it's _never_ true; I always want everything to do with him, even when he

I haven't made it through a single whole night in my old bed so I'm not even trying. We sleep, ridiculously far apart given the fact that we're in the same bed.

We talk. We fight. We know we'll both lose, every single time, but we never were the best of communicators, were we.

We accuse each other of not understanding, but the truth is we do both understand, it's just too painful to think about it.

Wrapped up in cases I can go hours without remembering him on the roof. Other times there isn't a single second I'm free of it. I leave, I come back, I leave again.

But he's like a drug.

I have to be with him.


	31. 28th October: Blog Draft

I hadn't really expected the nightmares to stop. But this was the first one during a night at 221B.

I was frozen in this one. Couldn't move a muscle. _Keep your eyes fixed on me_ he said and they were. I tried to go inside, I tried to pick up the phone and tell him I love him, _please stay with me_ I tried to say but not even my lips would move. When he fell, the ground disappeared beneath me and I tried to run to him over streets that weren't there. I woke up choking on his name.

My skin was slippery with cold sweat, the sheets were clammy. I kicked the duvet away and my own breathing was screaming in my ears. I needed a moment before I was brave enough to turn my head on the pillow.

Sherlock was lying closer to me than when we fell asleep, facing me, and he was awake. His hand was lying on the mattress between us, outstretched without daring to go all the way.

I lunged for it before I could think. Closed it in both my hands in a clumsy grip, holding tight. I forced myself to keep looking at him even though my eyes stung from being opened wide in the middle of sleep. Couldn't let myself close my eyes and risk returning to the dream. He met my gaze, blinking often. I think he did that on purpose, to show that he wasn't a corpse.

Then he started talking. I can hardly remember what he talked about, it was some experiment he had conducted that day, something about mud? Or something equally harmless. The important thing was of course his voice, that's why he did it. It was calm, quiet, private.

Eventually I loosened my grip on his hand and tugged it towards me, turning half onto my back. I placed his wrist over my mouth, carefully seeking his pulse with the sensitive skin of my lips. He missed a beat in his monologue, but then kept talking as if nothing had happened.

I found his pulse. I let his hand rest there, half on my face, and let the tides of his blood drum against my lips. Steady, unwavering, like nothing on earth could stop it. I know, of course, that that isn't true. But it was good enough to let me fall back asleep and be spared any more dreams.


	32. 7th November: Texts

Sherlock    16:10  
Where did you go? SH

John    16:28  
Home.

John    16:35  
Some days even London isn't big enough for  
the distance I need between us.

 

_unsent    20:31  
But sometimes a bed isn't small enough for  
_ _how close I need to be to you_


	33. 11th November: Blog Draft

It's like he always knows the _second_ he has to show up. Whatever he's doing, he always comes before it's too late. I'm starting to think he might have done that if I'd been in mortal danger at some point during those three years too, like he's my personal angel.

Nah, he wouldn't really. Angels can fly and he didn't.

It looked really bad for me earlier tonight. I was wrestled to the ground and I knew she had a knife. After seeing all of her victims, I didn't hold out too much hope that she would let me get away with minor injuries.

When I think about it, I can't have actually seen him coming. It was dark, my face was pressed into the cold, wet asphalt, and there was rain in my eyes. But picturing it now, it's like I could see a big black shadow swoop in with a dramatic flare and murderous determination. There was a loud impact when Sherlock collided with the woman and she flew off my back.

He wrestled the knife from her hand before I could get to them, and as soon as I'd gotten hold of my gun the whole thing was over. She stayed on the ground while we waited for the police, and Sherlock was radiating nervous energy, pacing around us.

“Put the damn knife down”, I told him, gun still aimed at the woman. Sherlock turned to look at me for the first time.

His face was wide open and paler than the moon above him. His eyes lay in shadow, for which I'm somewhat grateful, because his face showed almost more than I could take right then anyway.

“Are you all right?” he asked me roughly.

“Yeah. Everything is fine.”

He stared at me for a second longer before pacing away again, not dropping the knife as I'd told him to.

In the cab home, both our hands were lying on the seat between us in this awkward angle, but neither of us moved. Him saving my life was certainly enough intimacy for this evening.


	34. 28th November: Blog Draft

Sherlock was captured in Serbia. He's been captured several times, but I think this was the worst – I mean, that other time he was imprisoned for months, but at least they didn't hurt him. These people did. They thought he was a member of some other gang, so they chained him and tortured him for information about the leader, location, some password.

He had to let them think they had it right, of course. If they found out he was Sherlock Holmes, it would have been worse. And the thing was, he knew the things they asked him about. He had deduced it during his time in the city, some things he deduced in the actual cell they kept him in. But he couldn't give it up too quickly, because that would have blown his cover. So he let them whip his back.

And even after he had given the information, they kept beating him.

He managed to escape before he was completely incapacitated, and he killed them. That was the last piece outside of London. Just a few days before he texted me.

He has started doing this – sharing bits and pieces from his time away. The first time he did it, the air froze around us. He set his mouth and stubbornly finished his sentence. Eventually time restarted, but it wasn't long before he did it again, and I just didn't know what I was supposed to say.

But he's kept on doing it like he's hell-bent on being able to talk about this. So I started doing it too, and I see the point now. I'm actually proud of him for it – because we need to be able to talk about this if we're ever gonna… I don't know. Whatever we're gonna do.

He has been through hell. A whole different kind of hell than mine. I know about the kills, I know about the scars. Soon the only thing he hasn't told me is the story of the 12th of June.

And he knows all about my moving out, the undertaker, Mary.

Speaking of Mary, I've been thinking a bit about her. For a long time I'd almost forgotten her, to be honest. When I think about her now, I wonder what her motives really were for keeping me away from Sherlock. She made it sound like she wanted to support me, but… all that speaking about what a bloody good man I am, rubbing the guilt in. Then she told me I couldn't trust him, and that turned out awfully well for her, if she wanted to keep me to herself.

I wouldn't say I trust him just yet. But he's been incredible. He actually has made an effort. He has saved my life two or three times already, and yes, that's necessary in this ridiculous line of work, but… every time he does, he. He looks at me a certain way. And I see the undersea-rainbows, as beautiful as ever and so _full_ of,

of something I can't bring myself to name just now. But it's there. And he lets me see it, he lets me know he's looking after me. He trusts me with his stories of loneliness and fear.

And though I still wouldn't trust him with my heart, I trust him with my life.


	35. 3rd December: Blog Draft

It all happens so very slowly. There is this careful balance between us. There is the swallowing of anger when it blooms up, because the argument is old and tired and there's nothing new for either of us to say. There are awkward silences in between the comfortable ones.

One day, we found ourselves together on the sofa while watching telly. I don't know who got there first and who joined them, but it happened, and then it kept happening. And it's such a small step, it's debatable whether it's even a step at all, and if so, towards what.

And then after more time has slowly passed, the gap on the sofa has shrunk. The anger is more rare, the paralysing grief more of an ache. The distance between us is a little bit less palpable and starts looking more like common air.

In trying to make progress, I fail. It ends in discomfort and anger and sorrow and sometimes, hatred. But it seems like even when I don't do anything, something is happening. We float in time and time does something to us, and it's a little bit more bearable to be in this flat.

And I think it's good.


	36. 18th December: Blog Draft

Sherlock has nightmares too.

Before he'd told me anything about his time away, they scared me. He'd whimper in his sleep, it'd wake me up, and I'd see him curled into a tight ball on the sheets. Shaking. His duvet kicked down to the foot of the bed. Sometimes I woke him up by saying his name, but then I pretended to be asleep before he opened his eyes. He would know I was awake of course, but he let me be, and I lay there listening to him trying to breathe.

One time, we both had a nightmare. His gasps of terror entered my dream and made it even more agonising, and when I finally woke up, we were clinging to each other in the middle of the bed. That's the only time we've held each other, since… since that night in the kitchen. I think about it sometimes, to hug him, or take his hand, but even the thought hurts so I don't. This time it was okay, though, waking up into it, feeling him trembling and sweating in terror just like me, feeling him calm down and following him through it.

Last night must have been a bad one. I woke up when he shouted, and it was only a few seconds before he darted out of bed. I thought he was getting a glass of water, but he didn't come back. I got up eventually and found him in the living room.

He had opened the window, letting the freezing night into the room, shaking in his vulnerable cotton pyjamas. He had a cigarette in one hand and clutched the cigarette pack in the other.

I said his name, but he didn't turn. I went to stand beside him, watching his pale profile. His eyes were wide and dark, staring straight ahead, and the shadows across his face made the angles sharp, barely human. He looked… frightening. And I saw him in Bulgaria, sitting in a glassless window, preparing to kill or be killed, breathing cigarettes his only comfort. All alone. All untouchable and dark and hard edges, and so breakable.

“Come back to bed”, I said. He just took another drag of the cigarette, his hand shaking with the cold. I fetched the blanket from the sofa, draped it around his shoulders, took the cigarette from him and put it out. He turned his head then, looked at me with dark, terrified, wide open eyes. I eased open his grip around the cigarette package, slick with cold sweat.

He let me put my arm around his back and lead him into the bedroom. When he lay down he kept shaking, even beneath the duvet and the blanket he was still draped in. He kept staring at me with those haunted eyes and his lips were frighteningly pale.

“I'm here”, I whispered, and he nodded jerkily.

Then I just couldn't stand it any more so I slid my hand into his hair. The reaction was immediate, just like the night when I came to him and touched him. His eyes fell closed without effort, his lips parted around a heavy exhalation. I moved my hand slowly through his soft curls, and his face lost decades before my eyes. He looked like an innocent, vulnerable, untouched boy. He stilled, a hint of colour came back to his cheeks and his lips, and after a while he fell asleep. I kept stroking his hair until I fell asleep too, and I woke up still tangled in it.

His hair… yeah. You know I could write a whole blog post of poetry about it, but I think I need to just leave it at that this time.


	37. 26th December: Blog Draft

Came to see him on Christmas Day. Really I wanted to spend Christmas Eve here too, but his parents were visiting and now is definitely not the time to meet them.

It was raining all day. Nothing Christmassy about it, except for the few decorations Mrs Hudson has managed to sneak in. It was nice not to give it too much attention. It was nice just to spend the day with him, solving a crossword puzzle and ask him for help now and then, listening to his violin. To get to have a peaceful Christmas, without bottles all over the coffee table and painful phone calls I answered just so no one would worry enough to come over.

We ordered Chinese for dinner. I lit a candle. He looked sad when he saw it. But he ate.

Then we watched a movie. We sat close enough on the sofa that I could sense him move, I could sense his heat. Or maybe that was only that strange magnetic field that develops between our bodies. I could sense his scent though, I'm certain of that.

He watched the movie in silence, although it was a bad one and he can't have paid it much attention. I didn't either. Him beside me on a sofa on Christmas, that was what mattered.

I didn't even turn my eyes away from the screen when I told him, calmly, as the fact that it is.

“I love you. You know, Sherlock, that I love you. I'll never love anyone else. That's. That belongs to you.”

There was a long pause. We looked at the screen.

“I don't know who I am any more”, he finally said.

“I know. But whoever you are, I love you.”

No one said anything more after that, and neither of us even glanced to the side. We watched the movie to the end and then we went to bed.


	38. 29th January: Blog Draft

Life is very carefully starting to make a bit of sense again. Like the careful hope of spring when the light returns in January. I work. I go home. I have stopped asking when I want to go to Baker Street, I just come here. Sherlock exists here, so I exist beside him. Sometimes we talk. Mostly that's not really what we need. Sometimes we laugh. That, we really need.

Sometimes there's a case, and then I exist in that as well. It's not euphoric, it's not uncomfortable. It just is. I think that's what's needed most.

The flat is filled with Sherlock. He's quiet but he's glowing. He's walking about with his dressing gown untied over a crisp white shirt with straining buttons. He moves with a hushed grace that he is unaware of himself – he doesn't even seem to think I'm looking. His face is unmoving – not closed off, not sulky, just still, just quiet. His skin is pale, his lips are too, but his eyes are softly shining, the undersea-rainbows playing over his work, over the walls, sometimes gliding peacefully over me.

It's like a sunny day in winter. Around noon, the house is quiet. The radiator, the traffic outside, the occasional rush in the pipes, it all creates a special kind of silence. The sun posts squares of gold on the walls, and dancing over them: rainbows.

Everyone is joyful over the sun coming back after all the darkness. It is lovely; golden and real, it glistens in the frost. But in the wide windows, prisms break the light to scatter it all across the room. Those glowing rainbows are slowly moving back and forth, following some logic of their own, lighting up traces over the wallpaper. Unlike the sunlight they are quiet and secretive. They are only here, and only for me.

Sherlock is my prism, I think. The quiet colourful light hypnotising me, capturing me in reverence. I sit here, I watch, and it makes me calm. He takes the light and he scatters it all around me, making it into something even more beautiful. I can't touch it, I can't catch it. My privilege is to watch it, to be surrounded by it, to let it graze my skin.


	39. 1st – 4th February: Notes on a Piece of Paper

_(Note found first on the kitchen table;_  
_then in John's jeans pocket;_  
 _then under John's tea mug)_

_detergent_

 

_(Note moved to the desk; added message)_

What's this, Sherlock?

 

_(Note still on the desk; added message)_

_A shopping list. Obviously. SH_

 

_(Note still on the desk; added message)_

This is not a list.  
Why do you keep putting it in weird places  
instead of just buying detergent?

 

_(Note still on the desk; added message)_

_Because shopping is your assignment.  
Again, obvious. SH_

 

_(Note still on the desk; added message)_

Um, no, that's not obvious.  
You could do it once in a while. I don't even live here.

 

_(Note moved to John's wallet)_

_And yet, you keep doing the grocery shopping. SH_

 

_(Note moved to Sherlock's wallet)_

Because you are a lazy git.  
I'm not sure you know where Tesco is.  
And when you for once in your life make a shopping list  
you don't even write anything edible on it!

 

_(Note moved to the bathroom mirror)_

_I am not currently in need of anything edible. SH_

 

_(Note moved to Sherlock's chair)_

Yes, you are.  
What do you want detergent for?  
Not sure I wanna buy it for you.

 

_(Note moved to John's chair)_

_Oh, so I cannot have perfectly normal reasons  
to need detergent? SH_

 

_(Note moved into Sherlock's book on cannibalism)_

Exactly.

 

_(Note moved to the door of the fridge)_

_Look what you did, John. This hardly looks  
like a shopping list any longer. SH_

 

_(New note; on the kitchen table)_

Off to Tesco – see you in a bit  
(Don't worry, I'm taking the “list”) /John

 

_(Note still on the kitchen table; added message)_

_Going to Scotland Yard to investigate a murder._   
_You were supposed to come with me, which I would_   
_have told you, had you consulted me before going to Tesco._   
_SH_

_(Note still on the kitchen table; added message)_

I did tell you I was going to Tesco but you didn't react.  
Also, you were the one nagging me about doing the shopping.

 

_(Note still on the kitchen table; added message)_

_And you chose to do it at the most inconvenient time. SH_

 

_(Note moved to Sherlock's violin case)_

Well you seem to have thrown yourself over the detergent,  
so it can't have been too inconvenient.  
You could say thanks, you know.

 

_(Note moved to the mantelpiece mirror)_

_Perhaps I will next time.  
We are in further need of detergent. SH_

 

_(Note moved under the lens of Sherlock's microscope)_

What? I just bought you a bottle, what are you doing with it??

 

_(Note moved under the lid of John's laptop)_

_Scientific research, John. Don't be so daft. SH_

 

_(Note moved to the door handle of 221B)_

Well off you go to Tesco, then.

 

_(Note moved to the outside of the door to 221B)_

_No time. I need to think. New detergent required in 1h 30min.  
Do not disturb. SH_

 

_(Note moved to the kitchen table)_

Well I guess I'm off to Tesco.  
You are an unbelievably great idiot.

 

_(Note still on the kitchen table)_

_Oh. Thank you, John. SH_

 

_(New note; on John's pillow)_

_I think you are an idiot too. SH_


	40. 5th February: Old Piece of Paper Kept in John's Wallet

17th February 2011

Walking in the park. Unhurriedly, quietly. Not a single word.

Fresh air. Melting snow, slush and mud. Pouring water in spontaneous brooks. Hint of sun through thin cloud cover.

White and brown and promises of new green. Blue scarf. Rosy cheeks. Floating undersea-rainbows. Calm shoulders. Shallow breath.

Thompson was vibrant with the spring. We let her loose. She splattered wet snow on our trousers. Sherlock didn't manage to say anything about it. Neither of us had a voice.

Walking slowly. Arms brushing

Arms touching

Arms pressing

By accident.

Warmth. Racing heart. Calm smile on my lips.

Thompson found a branch. She wrestled with it, jumped, snarled, bursting with happiness.

We stopped. We watched. Arms pressing. Hands finding. He had no gloves.

He had no gloves.

Watching the dog, watching the undersea-rainbows, watching the inside of my eyelids. Bright with the hint of sun.

Smell of spring, smell of melting ice, smell of skin, smell of breath.

Nobody moved, not on purpose. So slowly, so slowly, tilting, descending.

Lips brushing

Lips touching

Lips pressing

By accident.

 

 

_5 th February 2015_

_You keep this in your wallet._

_Do you still read it?_

_SH_


	41. 6th February: Texts

John    15:56  
Hey, Sherlock says you sent us home. Just  
checking this actually did come from you.

Greg    15:57  
Yeah, just go, I'll deal with this myself.

John    15:57  
Okay what did he do?

Greg    15:58  
Nothing, I've just had enough of the two of  
you for one day, mate.

John    15:58  
What's that supposed to mean? I thought  
today was unusually good.

Greg    15:59  
Ha, yeah, I can see how it might have been  
for you. Not so much for everyone on the  
outside.

John    16:01  
Still not sure what you mean. Sherlock might,  
but it's hard to tell from the way he's just  
grunting when I try to ask him.

Greg    16:01  
Well, no offence, but you two can be pretty  
insufferable.

John    16:02  
No offence?

Greg    16:04  
At some point it just feels awkward standing  
on the side while you two look at each other  
in this secret communication.

Greg    16:04  
Or worse, giggle when I try to talk to you.

John    16:05  
Was it that bad?

Greg    16:05  
It's always that bad. It's unsettling, the way  
you stare at each other.

John    16:05  
We don't stare at each other.

Greg    16:05  
You stare. You have eye sex daily in the  
middle of my office.

John    16:06  
It's not like that, though.

Greg    16:06  
Oh, my bad. I guess it's the flirting and the  
drooling over each other's arse that gave me  
the wrong idea.

John    16:06  
Hey, that's not what's going on!

Greg    16:07  
Please, John. Won't you just seal the deal  
already? I can't believe you guys are making  
us go through this again.

John    16:08  
It's not that simple, as you can probably  
understand.

Greg    16:08  
Yeah, sorry if I'm being insensitive.

Greg    16:08  
But seriously, maybe it's time to, you know,  
move on. You're supposed to be together.

John    16:10  
I'm just not sure I could. And not sure he  
wants to.

Greg    16:11  
Well then at least take the day off and flirt in  
the privacy of your home.

John    16:11  
We're not flirting.

John    16:11  
We're just having fun.

Greg    16:12  
I'll bet.

John    16:12  
Oh God, stop it now.

Greg    16:22  
Hey, you know I'm here if you want to grab a  
pint or something.

John    16:24  
Yeah. Thanks Greg.


	42. 6th February: Blog Draft

I swear I don't do it on purpose.

But when I'm not paying attention, I drift closer to Sherlock.

When I'm not paying attention, I smile at him without having a reason to.

When I'm not paying attention, I fail to tear my eyes away from his mesmerising undersea-rainbows. It's true what Greg says, we do seem to communicate a lot through looks only. When did we slip back into that? I can't believe we're back to knowing each other well enough for it to work.

When I'm not paying attention, I joke and tease and bicker in a way I refuse to call flirting. It does look a lot like it, though.

When I'm not paying attention, and he isn't either, yes, fine, my eyes occasionally drift downwards.

When I'm not paying attention, I forget everything around us. Sherlock is all I can see, hear and think. Only what he's saying matters, and when he jokes I can't stop laughing. One time I did notice Greg saying my name pretty loudly, and I cut myself off mid-giggle, embarrassed that I'd all but forgotten he was there.

I don't mean to. But with Sherlock, it's never what I planned. It's never the expected. And since this is what happens when I let go for just a second… well, does that mean it's the way it should be?


	43. 10th February: Texts

Sherlock    13:44  
Baker Street is dull. Where are you? SH

John    13:47  
You called ME dull, so I went to the flat.

Sherlock    13:47  
Don't be ridiculous, I would never say that. SH

John    13:48  
“John, I'm bored, don't just stand there in  
your dull jumper, do something!”

Sherlock    13:48  
First of all, it's your jumper that is dull. SH

Sherlock    13:48  
Second of all, you didn't do something. SH

John    13:49  
I did. I recognised a fit and got the hell outta  
there.

Sherlock    13:49  
I don't know why you keep returning to “the  
flat”. I thought this was the flat. SH

John    13:50  
Well, it was, but then I moved out. And so did  
you.

Sherlock    13:50  
And then I came back. You should too. You  
could walk around in those awful slippers  
and be adorably confused over the  
crossword every morning.

John    13:51  
Adorably confused, huh?

John    13:51  
I'm not the one thinking John Lennon is a  
cartoon.

Sherlock    13:51  
There are too many Johns in the world. I  
deleted the unimportant ones. SH

John    13:51  
Is that so? How many do you have left?

Sherlock    13:51  
One. SH

John    13:52  
See, I would be flattered, but if you didn't  
know my name you wouldn't be able to shout  
at me to get you stuff when you're too lazy to  
get up, and you are a man of convenience.

Sherlock    13:53  
Oh, so your name is also John? I meant John  
F Kennedy. SH

John    13:53  
Ha ha.

John    13:53  
How did you know about John F Kennedy?

Sherlock    13:53  
I have a mind palace, you know. SH

John    13:53  
No, really.

Sherlock    13:54  
I googled “famous Johns”. He was first on  
the list. SH

John    13:54  
You're ridiculous.

John    13:54  
But adorably ridiculous.

Sherlock    13:55  
I am not. You know that my brain is a hard  
drive and I must select the data that matters  
to store. SH

John    13:55  
So you threw the solar system out.

Sherlock    13:55  
Exactly. SH

John    13:55  
But you kept the different nuances of my  
hair.

Sherlock    13:57  
How did you deduce that? SH

John    13:57  
You commented on it this morning. Said the  
bathroom lamp brought out a new nuance of  
grey that you hadn't previously stored in your  
mind palace.

John    13:58  
Then you lay down on the sofa with your  
fingers steepled so I'm assuming you got to  
work.

Sherlock    13:58  
Oh. SH

Sherlock    13:58  
Yes. Well. SH

John    13:59  
Yep. Nothing like waking up to comments  
about my greying hair. Thanks for that.

Sherlock    14:00  
Your hair is greying in an aesthetically  
pleasing manner. SH

John    14:00  
So's yours.

John    14:03  
Ha!

John    14:03  
Made you rush to the mirror didn't I?

Sherlock    14:03  
Not funny, John. SH

John    14:04  
Relax, Sherlock. Your hair is perfect.

John    14:04  
And it will be lovely with grey streaks in it too.

John    14:04  
You'll only look classy when you age, you  
know. The cheekbones and all that tall  
elegance.

Sherlock    14:06  
I suppose that as long as I keep my good  
coat and short friend, the odds are in my  
favour. SH

John    14:08  
Yeah, well I'm not going anywhere.

John    14:08  
I'll stand next to you and look short and  
boring, and you'll be dashing, I promise.

Sherlock    14:08  
Boring? What ever are you talking about? SH

John    14:09  
Well, you know. Greying, scarred soldier.

Sherlock    14:09  
But that's your beauty. SH

Sherlock    14:12  
I mean. That's

Sherlock    14:12  
Forget it.

John    14:12  
No, don't

John    14:14  
Thank you.

John    14:16  
You do know I meant you're beautiful too,  
right?

Sherlock    14:19  
Thank you, John.

John    14:25  
Hey, maybe I'll bring my awful slippers next  
time I come over.

Sherlock    14:26  
When will that be?

John    14:26  
Will I be greeted with bored shooting at the  
walls if I come now?

Sherlock    14:26  
No.

John    14:26  
Then now.

Sherlock    14:26  
Good. Okay.

John    14:27  
Do you know something?

Sherlock    14:27  
Hm?

John    14:27  
You're forgetting the SH in the end.

Sherlock    14:28  
Shut up. SH


	44. 15th February: Blog Draft

Sherlock had gotten us a case outside London for Valentine's Day.

I mean, not _for_ Valentine's. Or I don't know. It coincided with Valentine's. Awfully convenient, at any rate.

The case was brilliant. We came up with the most ridiculous plan to catch the killer, and it was glorious. When we went back to the inn the night sky was clear and the stars much brighter than in London. It felt like my chest opened, watching it while high on adrenalin, like my heart was exposed so it could all pour into me, the victory and the stars and Sherlock.

He caught me looking at him and smiled. I love him.

… Oh.

I hope I'm not doing that out loud.

The inn was cosy and he'd booked us a room with a double bed – of course he had, we always sleep in the same bed, but still. When we'd turned out the lights we talked about the case, or rather, we giggled over it. Really, it's the most hilariously silly thing we've done yet, but that's a story for the public blog, I think. Think it's time to start it back up.

He's still quieter, he's still somehow smaller than he was before. Like he doesn't dare to reach out and fill the spaces around him. But more and more often he sparks into life and he isn't only satisfied with his work, he's also joyful. When he dissolves into giggles, he seems to forget everything about who he is, who he thinks he's supposed to be, who he's afraid to be.

We laughed for what could have been hours, at some point I lost track of what was funny. He was gasping for air and that might just be my favourite sound in the world. I mean, not in any context, not when he's being suffocated or when he has a nightmare obviously, but when he laughs, or when he has run and managed to catch whoever he was chasing, or – well, I think I should leave this now.

I was crying with laughter, and when we finally went to sleep, I felt liquid. Sated somehow.

It makes me think of that Valentine's picnic four years ago. God, we were so innocent and recklessly happy. I've felt like we've destroyed everything about that; our confidence and trust, our happiness, our love, and the roof we sat on. But I'm not sure I believe that any longer. It's all changed, yes, it's definitely damaged. But Sherlock giggling in my bed on Valentine's Day proves that it isn't destroyed.


	45. 16th February: Texts

John    14:15  
What are you up to today?

Sherlock    14:31  
Autopsy with Molly. SH

John    14:31  
You're at Bart's, then?

Sherlock    14:31  
I believe that is a deduction you are able to  
make yourself. SH

John    14:32  
Right, sorry, smart arse.

John    14:34  
Do you want to have dinner with me later?

Sherlock    14:35  
Did we not eat yesterday? SH

John    14:35  
We did. Now it's time again.

Sherlock    14:35  
Fine. SH

John    14:37  
Good. I could come by around seven?

Sherlock    14:37  
Mm. SH

John    14:40  
Listen, I had this idea.

Sherlock    14:44  
Well? SH

John    14:45  
Could we take it up to the roof and have the  
dinner there?

Sherlock    14:51  
Why would you want that? SH

John    14:52  
I think it would be good for me to face it.

John    14:52  
And maybe for you too.

Sherlock    14:56  
John, I do not want to expose you to any  
more trauma. SH

John    14:56  
I'm sure I can handle that, Sherlock.

John    14:56  
If you don't want to, that's another matter. But  
I'm certain that I want to.

John    14:57  
I've been thinking about going there anyway.  
But I would rather have you with me.

Sherlock    15:00  
John, I now realise there is a question I have  
not asked you out loud, although I do hope  
you know that I have been available for  
whatever the answer might be. Is there  
anything you need from me? SH

John    15:02  
Not really. I need you to breathe, and you're  
good at that. Thanks for asking.

John    15:02  
Mostly I need to deal with my own stuff.  
Tonight I just need you to sit with me and eat  
your dinner.

Sherlock    15:05  
I could do that. SH

John    15:05  
Yeah?

Sherlock    15:06  
Yes. All right. SH

John    15:06  
Ok, God. Ok. I'll bring Chinese?

Sherlock    15:07  
Yes. SH


	46. 17th February: Blog Draft

An overcast night on Bart's roof.

Clouds drifting fast, dark colours changing. Greys and blacks in the sky mirrored by Sherlock's coat, Sherlock's hair, his dramatically shadowed face. When there was a brief gap in the cloud cover, the moon shone through brightly, making his skin sharply white.

His hand strangely warm despite the cold of the night. Sitting side by side on a picnic blanket, trembling and holding on.

His hand is the only thing I can hold on to and feel safe. I wish I could have done that always.

I wish to do it forever from now on.

He watched the lights of London beneath us. I had watched his face shift on our way from the morgue to the roof, starting with something oddly, shyly hopeful and changing to pale dread. I wasn't sure who would need to comfort whom, but standing before the little door leading to the roof, he was the wrecked one.

I suppose we both are. I suppose that's the point.

I was the one taking his hand and asking if he was ready. We entered the roof together, returning not to the spot of something horrible he did to me, but of something horrible that happened to us both, me and him and _us_.

He watched the clouds while the takeaway was cooling in its boxes, without doing his act of being untouchable. Even with the moon-pale skin he looked unusually human, he looked… just, alive.

I forced myself to feel it. To see him for all that he is. He is the man I met in the lab somewhere below us, five years ago. He is the wonder I couldn't take my eyes off with the powdered sugar on his nose and the night sky in his eyes. He is the person I shared everything with for a brief eternity of our lives. He is the one who stood on this roof, cried and told me farewell, he is the one who lay on the pavement in a pool of someone else's blood. He is someone who was imprisoned for months, afraid to die while everyone thought he was dead already, because no-one would notice and so no-one would care. He is the shell of a human being who came back.

He is all this, at the same time. There is no running from the feelings I have for any of these parts of him. And he is what he is _now_ , a man who has survived, a man still unsure of how much he has lost and how much he'll be able to gain. He is beautiful, in all his heartbreaking humanity. All that he is and all that he has done. Even standing on the edge of this roof and spreading his arms. He is so beautiful.

I wouldn't have noticed I was crying if not for how bloody cold it was, freezing the tears on my cheeks.

“I texted Moriarty from the lab while you were asleep at the desk”, he said suddenly. “I told him to meet me on the roof. Once I'd sent you away, he answered me, and I went up here to meet him.”

He remembers every detail of it, every word, every gesture. He got up during his story and I panicked for a second, but he immediately saw it on my face. “I won't go near the edge.”

Even sitting on the roof of Bart's, I trusted him enough to stay calm.

His coat swirled softly around while he walked across the roof, acting out a scene he knew with the accuracy of someone who has gone over and over the memory for years. He showed me the exact spot where Moriarty died. Seemed disappointed there wasn't a trace left from it.

His voice didn't waver until:

“So I stepped up on the edge.” He pointed with his whole hand, the hand that reached out to hold me in place on the pavement below. “I saw the cab coming in and I called you.”

He turned to face me. I didn't know I'd gotten up before I stood in front of him, watching his eyes fill with tears. He didn't talk about the phone call, the tears replacing his words. I held his gaze for far longer than I could bear, because turning away at that point would have meant denying everything those last minutes on the phone meant.

“I wish I'd told you”, I said.

He let go of a breath, bordering on a sob, maybe a laugh. I want to forever remember his face in that moment. That's how I want to imagine he looked the last time we spoke.

And then he said: “Me too. I knew telling you would probably make it more difficult for you. But I still wish I had.”

“Yeah”, I tried to say, but my voice failed me, and suddenly I was in his arms.

I wouldn't be able to say how long we stood there. Wouldn't be able to tell you which shaking breaths were his and which were mine. Eventually we breathed in time with each other, and I wasn't cold any more, wrapped up in him. Strange how something that seemed impossible to do for months – holding him – now was the only possible thing to do. I nestled my face inside his coat collar, and the warm smell of Sherlock felt like a cure.

Somehow, in a way so simple I wouldn't be able to say how we did it, we took care of each other. He saw my pain and I saw his, neither of us backing away, holding each other through it. Two survivors from the same catastrophe.

We let go at the same time. Both of us knowing we were done.

Sat back down. Finally ate the takeaway. I had cried enough for it to taste like nothing. The clouds blew past us and revealed the moon properly.

Nothing really mattered any more. There was no self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath using arrogance as a shield, and no broken ex-army doctor feeling sorry for himself. The distance between the top of a tall building and the pavement below wasn't there. There was only Sherlock and I, having dinner, talking and actually laughing.

Looking back, I think it was something as intricately simple as happiness.

We parted in silent agreement, both needing February 17th apart from each other without having to say it. We don't need the pressure of our old anniversary right now. He got into a cab, and I saw him smiling to himself when it drove away. It made me smile stupidly when I started walking home.

I walked all the way, breathing the freezing night air, allowing my body to shake some more with the cold and with the – everything. Smiling to myself every time he smiled in my memory, a small smile of victory.

I did it. We did it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update will be the last ten chapters all at once. It'll be some time this coming weekend!


	47. 18th February: Texts

John    13:59  
Hey, where are you?

John    13:59  
I'm at Baker Street

Sherlock    14:01  
Oh, I just left. SH

John    14:02  
Case?

Sherlock    14:02  
No. SH

John    14:03  
Ok. Maybe I'll make some dinner, if you're  
home by then?

Sherlock    14:03  
Likely. SH

John    14:05  
You're awfully mysterious.

Sherlock    14:05  
I assure you there is no need to worry. SH

John    14:06  
Yeah, but I'm getting curious. Where are you?

Sherlock    14:06  
On a personal errand. SH

John    14:06  
Sherlock!

Sherlock    14:08  
I have been debating this for some time. I  
have been carefully weighing the pros and  
cons and considered all the factors. You may  
say this is an unrealistic idea, given my  
lifestyle, but I have spoken to Mrs Hudson  
and she is happy to help when I need it. SH

John    14:08  
… What are you talking about?

Sherlock    14:08  
I am investigating the feasibility of getting a  
dog. SH

John    14:09  
Oh.

Sherlock    14:10  
I know for a fact that Mrs Hudson misses  
Thompson, and she is delighted at the  
prospect of looking after a dog again. SH

John    14:10  
Right. Not that you miss Thompson at all.

Sherlock    14:11  
Thompson was an unusually clever creature.  
SH

John    14:11  
She was. So now you're hoping to find  
another one like her?

Sherlock    14:11  
It could be valuable for the work, John. SH

John    14:11  
I'm sure it could.

John    14:12  
I don't know why you refuse to admit how  
badly you just want to cuddle with a dog.

John    14:12  
Your love of dogs is adorable, you know.

Sherlock    14:12  
I do not “cuddle” with dogs. SH

John    14:12  
Uh huh. So where are you now?

Sherlock    14:13  
On my way to Dartford. There is an elderly  
couple with the impressive number of five  
dogs. The lady has suffered a hip fracture  
and is no longer fit to walk them, and  
therefore they are endeavouring to relocate  
all five into new homes.

John    14:13  
Five? Yeah, you'll definitely cuddle with dogs.

Sherlock    14:13  
I will pick out the most intelligent one and  
consider letting it into my home. SH

John    14:14  
You'll fall in love on the spot. You'll be home  
for dinner with a dog, I'm betting on it.

Sherlock    14:14  
There is no guarantee that they will be willing  
to sell one of their dogs to me. SH

John    14:14  
Of course they will. You're amazing with  
dogs.

Sherlock    14:15  
I am less “amazing” with people.  
Unfortunately, it is the people who decide. SH

John    14:15  
No, you're amazing always.

John    14:15  
You don't need to be nervous, love.

John    14:15  
Um, sorry, that just… sort of… fuck

John    14:16  
I just mean, if you want a dog, you'll get a  
dog. You'll be fine.

Sherlock    14:17  
Thank you. That is very kind of you to say. SH

Sherlock    14:17  
You approve, then? SH

John    14:19  
I always wanted to get a dog with you, you  
know.

Sherlock    14:19  
Did you really? SH

John    14:20  
I think I still do.

John    14:21  
Do you?

Sherlock    14:21  
Do I what? SH

John    14:21  
Want to get a dog with me?

Sherlock    14:21  
What are you saying? SH

John    14:23  
How far have you gotten?

Sherlock    14:23  
Almost there. SH

Sherlock    14:23  
Although I am thirty-seven minutes early. I  
found it difficult to wait at home. SH

Sherlock    14:23  
Meaning I now have to wait in Dartford  
instead. Dartford is dull, John. This was  
stupid. SH

John    14:23  
Haha, you'll be fine

John    14:25  
If I take a cab now, I'll only be slightly late.

Sherlock    14:25  
John, you don't need to come here. SH

John    14:25  
I know I don't need to. But I think I want to.  
Can't leave this important decision to you  
alone.

Sherlock    14:26  
We cannot get a dog together. SH

John    14:26  
Why not?

Sherlock    14:26  
Because we do not live together. It would be  
highly impractical. SH

John    14:26  
And you are a practical man.

Sherlock    14:27  
Exactly. SH

John    14:27  
I'll just move back in, then.

Sherlock    14:27  
That seems like going to extraordinary  
lengths just to get a dog, John. SH

John    14:27  
It does, yeah.

John    14:28  
So then it's no shock to you that it's not about  
the dog.

John    14:29  
I want to live with you, properly.

Sherlock    14:31  
John. Anniversaries are known to make one  
remember significant events, and may create  
a wish to re-establish a previous state of  
happiness. February 17th is likely to do that  
to you, but striving to recreate something  
that has been gone for four years will only  
bring us misery. SH

John    14:31  
Says the man who runs out to get a dog the  
day after the 17th.

Sherlock    14:31  
Completely unrelated. SH

John    14:32  
So is this. This is not some delusional idea  
that we can go back to what we had before.

John    14:32  
What we have right now isn't too shabby  
either, if you ask me.

John    14:32  
I want to live with YOU. Now.

John    14:32  
What do you say?

Sherlock    14:34  
Hurry up and get a cab. SH


	48. 24th February: Blog Draft

My stomach hurts with joy when I see Sherlock with Gladstone. It almost brings me to tears daily, which is ridiculous.

It's just that he's been through so much. The world has been so cruel to him, and he has survived things that should have killed him. It doesn't end there, survival isn't that easy. There are consequences to survival. I know about it all, and it's still too big to understand.

He has fought for so long. I could cry at the strength he possesses, the sheer will to live. He hasn't given up even when all odds have been against him.

And now he's here. Sitting at our desk wrapped in a sheet, and the purple lines on his back look paler in the morning light. Gladstone is standing next to him with his tail whipping through the air, tongue out, almost jumping with enthusiasm, simply because he loves Sherlock so much. Sherlock strokes the dog's head with his delicate hands, tearing his eyes away from the laptop screen to look down at Gladstone. The furrow at the top of his nose appears in a fond smile, and I want to bloody marry that furrow.

 

This is my home now. This is all mine. Sometimes I'm so happy I feel like I can't take it. Maybe that was the feeling at the very core of my anger and grief last summer; happiness at having my best friend back, a happiness so overwhelming I couldn't bear to feel it.


	49. 1st March: Blog Draft

Sherlock is singing.

Good God, he is _singing_.

He started in the shower this morning. I'd decided on a slow Sunday so I took my time waking up. The white sheets were clean and warm, the curtains were framed by a thread of sunlight, the water was splashing against the floor on the other side of the bedroom wall. And his rumbling voice echoed between the tiles, found some frequency where it made the whole room sing.

It was a vaguely familiar tune but he was only humming at that point. I stayed in bed a little longer, revelling in his scent left in the room.

He kept humming when he was getting dressed and I was making breakfast. He ate what I put before him, and he didn't sing then but it was as if the notes were still clinging to him. To his face, glowing with the winter sunlight, to his body's cosy movements inside a fresh grey shirt and his burgundy dressing gown, to his hair curling with damp.

Okay, let's be honest, then. He looked hands down _delicious_.

And then he started singing again. He tries to stop himself when he sees me look at him and becomes aware of what he's doing, but he always starts again, as though the music just needs to get out. No, like he _lives_ in it, bathes in it, and he can't help it.

When he was turning a piece of a nail over his Bunsen burner, the words came, and now I know what song it is, and that's hilarious. _Take me to church, I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies…_ Yep, even Sherlock Holmes gets brainwashed by the popular music of his time. This makes it all even more wonderful, because he obviously didn't choose to do this.

He's just happy enough to sing a silly song for a whole Sunday.

_Offer me that deathless death, good God let me give you my life_

His voice is so beautiful. I want to burrow into his chest so that I can feel it surrounding me. I want to dance with him even though I can't bloody dance.

 

Now he caught me looking again, and he blushed under his safety goggles and stopped in the middle of a heartfelt _a-a-a-a-amen_ , but I'm smiling and it feels suspiciously much like my eyes might be glittering, and he turned his head away to hide a smile and suppress a snort.

It's ridiculous for my pulse to race just because of that.


	50. 5th March: Old Piece of Paper Put on Sherlock's Bedside Table

17th February 2011

Walking in the park. Unhurriedly, quietly. Not a single word.

Fresh air. Melting snow, slush and mud. Pouring water in spontaneous brooks. Hint of sun through thin cloud cover.

White and brown and promises of new green. Blue scarf. Rosy cheeks. Floating undersea-rainbows. Calm shoulders. Shallow breath.

Thompson was vibrant with the spring. We let her loose. She splattered wet snow on our trousers. Sherlock didn't manage to say anything about it. Neither of us had a voice.

Walking slowly. Arms brushing

Arms touching

Arms pressing

By accident.

Warmth. Racing heart. Calm smile on my lips.

Thompson found a branch. She wrestled with it, jumped, snarled, bursting with happiness.

We stopped. We watched. Arms pressing. Hands finding. He had no gloves.

He had no gloves.

Watching the dog, watching the undersea-rainbows, watching the inside of my eyelids. Bright with the hint of sun.

Smell of spring, smell of melting ice, smell of skin, smell of breath.

Nobody moved, not on purpose. So slowly, so slowly, tilting, descending.

Lips brushing

Lips touching

Lips pressing

By accident.

 

 

_5 th February 2015_

_You keep this in your wallet._

_Do you still read it?_

_SH_

 

 

5th March 2015

Yes. John


	51. 6th March: Blog Draft

I was on the sofa when he got home yesterday. He was a bundle of energy, dashing in with shoes still on and coat flaring out behind him. I thought he didn't even see me, which was just as well, because I was a bundle of desperate nerves. He flew down the hallway into the bedroom, probably to check on the wallpaper experiment.

And then it all went very quiet.

I couldn't sit any longer. I got up, paced to the window, looked down at Baker Street. Willing anything interesting to happen down there that I could focus on. It was all dull and mundane, because all the chaos of the world was sitting in my stomach at that moment.

The low thud of his shoes down the hall. He stopped in the doorway. I turned around. My eyes felt absurdly wide.

I'll never forget how he looked, standing on the threshold in his intimidating coat, holding a worn page from a notebook in his hand, blackened from sitting in my wallet for four years. His curls were blown into a riot by the wind, his cheekbones were framed by his upturned collar. His eyes were fierce.

“John”, he said, of course that's what he said, that's what he always says and he means everything. I nodded mutely, and he said: “There's something… I should say.”

“Yeah”, I croaked, and suddenly he was right before me, far too close. Looming over me, his eyes stone-hard but shifting, shimmering undersea-rainbows, roving over my face. He breathed heavily through his nose and his air brushed my face. It smelled divine. I felt myself stupidly lick my lips and he watched the movement. He watched everything, he saw… _everything_. All that I am.

“I think it's overdue, don't you?” he said, and his voice was so soft in contrast to the terrifying determination of his face.

I opened my mouth to agree or disagree, and there was a little noise before I closed it again, shaking my head a bit.

“Because the moment I saw you, your image was burned into my mind. I saw that you were extraordinary”

No, wait, that came after.

“You thought you weren't extraordinary, you thought you were no more than an old gunshot wound and an imaginary leg injury. You thought you were grey, and you showed the world how grey you were. Well, if you had known me, you would have known you wouldn't fool me.”

Yes, and then:

“I saw that you were extraordinary, John. I have never in my life seen anything so beautiful. All I wanted was to exist by your side and _watch_.”

I couldn't look away while he talked, it's the most intense thing I've seen. Every part of his face fixed me to it, and his gorgeous mouth moved around unbelievable words. He tipped his head as if he knew how that would make his breath gush over my face from a different angle, varying his caress.

“It was the most frightening thing, because I knew that I would do whatever you asked me to. I turned you down in a panic and you were so kind and tolerant and respected my wish. I almost reached out for you to make you look again, make you claim me. It took you one year to do that, but it was worth it. I know we only had four months. But that doesn't make it less, it doesn't make it in any way insignificant, because there is not a second that I have known you and not cherished you.”

“Before I met you, I didn't consider feelings to be facts. Feelings are unpredictable, they can change at any time, and so one cannot build reasoning on them. But there is a fact, one solid fact encased in my body. Perhaps it's not a feeling, but rather a state of being, impossible to change. And the fact is of course, John Watson… that I love you.”

I can't describe how it felt to hear those words in his voice. To see his lips move around them. And then he just went on:

“I loved you when you moved in with me. I loved you when you started touching me and made me blush with your outrageous innuendos. I loved you when you kissed me in the park. I loved you when I fell. I loved you when I was imprisoned. I loved you when I got your texts. I loved you when I came back to you. I loved you when you told me you loved me. I love you now.” His voice became a whisper. “Right now.”

I finally managed to look away for a moment, catching my breath. Then I looked back, and I must have smiled, because it mirrored in his eyes.

I stroked my hands up the insides of his coat lapels, gripping them, pulling him in. Touching my forehead to his, letting myself inhale the intoxicating scent at the side of his nose before kissing him.

And there was nothing else there. Just he and I, Sherlock and John, like we're supposed to be.

The rest of the day was just kisses, everywhere we went. Chaste, almost all of them. Finally fell asleep with my lips against his neck.


	52. 7th March: Blog Draft

My world had shrunk down to his lips. Chaste kisses turned sensual over the course of hours. In bed, on my back, with the curtains closed and the lights out, he was hovering over me, his mouth slowly devouring mine. Savouring every slide of tongues.

My hands wandered over him, couldn't decide where to touch him. Everything I could touch is so unbearably sweet, and it's all _here_ , and I should _do_ something, but I can't come up with anything that will ever be enough.

At some point it was more hot breaths than kisses. I gave him his air to breathe and he gave me mine.

“Will you make me wait again, Watson?” he breathed across my lips.

“No”, I said and flipped us over, pinning his wrists to the mattress above his head.

A startled gasp. He immediately spread his legs so I could sink down between them.

Sherlock through his thin pyjama pants is the most delicious feeling. He shifted against me, slowly sliding back and forth, the movement trapped beneath my weight.

“Undress me.” Breathless voice.

“What's that?”

He knew what I was waiting for and it made him twitch against my thigh. “Undress me _please_.”

I don't know what that word is doing to me. I did it slowly, just to keep that word tumbling out of him.

Sherlock naked, his skin sliding against mine everywhere, is _divine_.

He folded his legs up, wrapping around my lower back. Deep kisses, cut-off sounds in his throat.

“Will you… please…”

His face is remarkable. So alive, so sensual, so lost to pleasure. He tried to hold my gaze when I slid my fingers in, but his eyes screwed shut, his lips pressed together hard. He rolled his head on the pillow, his hair damp with sweat. He clutched my back, irrationally urging me forward, accidentally begging me again.

He looked up when I entered him. His lips opened, trembling around silence, and I whispered that I love him, and then he shut his eyes and arched his neck.

I held still, letting him get used to me, staying in the unspeakable intimacy and pleasure. I held still until he started writhing and finally let out a closed-mouthed moan.

“Yes, let me hear you, love.”

He opened his mouth when I started moving, and the noises he made sounded _shocked_ , whimpering and mewling high up in his throat. And when I took him in my hand he forgot everything, moaning loudly and arching and clutching me in every way he could.

“Ple- John-”

Everything got messy and blurry and frantic, and it just… went on, it just got impossibly better, and I know for a fact that I was sobbing his name over and over at the end.

I was laughing when I came down. He pretended to be annoyed at first but then our eyes met, and that means he has to laugh too. A breathless, shaky laughter before all his muscles seemed to give out at once and he sank down into the mattress with a groan, arms and legs sprawled over the whole bed, however that's possible.

His forehead tasted like salt when I kissed it. His mouth tasted like cold air. He didn't move for a long time, and just when I thought he was too tired to speak, he said it again:

“I love you.”


	53. 13th March: Texts

John    13:04  
Sweetheart, where have you put Gladstone's  
leash?

Sherlock    13:04  
Since when do you call me “sweetheart”? SH

John    13:04  
Since I became your boyfriend.

John    13:05  
The leash?

Sherlock    13:05  
Your status as my partner hardly requires you  
to call me silly names. SH

Sherlock    13:05  
The leash is in the fridge. SH

John    13:06  
Hang on, what is the leash doing in the  
fridge??

John    13:07  
… and why is it in a bowl of what I hope is  
water?

John    13:07  
Don't experiment on Gladstone's stuff,  
sweetie

Sherlock    13:07  
John. Stop it. SH

John    13:07  
Stop what, honey?

Sherlock    13:08  
Oh God. SH

John    13:08  
You secretly love it.

Sherlock    13:08  
What on earth makes you think that? SH

John    13:10  
Because you're all soft on the inside.

Sherlock    13:10  
Am not. SH

John    13:13  
You insisted on kissing the tip of my nose  
before you left, even though it meant you had  
to wait for me to get out of the bathroom.

John    13:13  
Soft.

Sherlock    13:14  
Aren't you supposed to pay attention to our  
dog whilst walking him? SH

John    13:15  
You know all about my multitasking skills.

Sherlock    13:15  
I cannot recall ever seeing you multitasking.  
SH

John    13:17  
That's because I was behind you at the time  
;)

Sherlock    13:17  
Oh dear, here comes the flirting. SH

John    13:18  
Is it working?

Sherlock    13:18  
That depends entirely on what you are  
endeavouring to accomplish. SH

John    13:21  
I suppose the endgame is you rushing home  
and letting me push you up against the  
handrail on the stairs, and scandalise you  
with the risk of scandalising Mrs H

Sherlock    13:21  
You know you don't have to keep flirting with  
me? You already have me. SH

John    13:22  
Yep, I am your boyfriend, which means I now  
have the right to make you blush whenever I  
see fit.

Sherlock    13:22  
I am not blushing. SH

John    13:24  
You would be if I told you what I want to do  
to you right now.

John    13:26  
Come on, you know you want to ask

John    13:26  
Or can you deduce it?

Sherlock    13:27  
Well, in all probability it is something sexual.  
SH

John    13:27  
It is.

John    13:28  
Pretty imprecise though, don't you think?

Sherlock    13:29  
You are being infuriating. SH

John    13:30  
And you are being the most gorgeous human  
being walking the earth.

John    13:33  
You are so cute when you pretend not to care  
about what I say.

Sherlock    13:33  
Stop calling me cute. SH

Sherlock    13:39  
John?

John    13:39  
Yeah?

Sherlock    13:39  
Where did you go? SH

John    13:40  
Right here. But you didn't want to know, so…

Sherlock    13:42  
Not in front of Gladstone. SH

John    13:44  
We're just getting back inside.

Sherlock    13:45  
Perhaps it would be fine if you told me, then.  
SH

John    13:47  
Just perhaps? Don't know about wasting my  
best sexting on someone who's not that into  
it.

Sherlock    13:48  
I see, you have already started; this is a sext  
of category 4. SH

John    13:48  
Um, what do you mean?

Sherlock    13:48  
Category 4) teasing. SH

John    13:48  
You have categorised sexting?

Sherlock    13:49  
No John, I have done research. According to  
my findings, there are 7 categories of  
sexting. SH

John    13:49  
Oh ok

John    13:49  
Did you find anything interesting during this  
research?

Sherlock    13:50  
There was this perspicuous article on sexting  
advice, organised after sext category and  
with a useful number of examples of each.  
Highly informative. SH

John    13:50  
Care to walk me through the categories?

Sherlock    13:50  
Oh. I assumed you were already familiar with  
them. SH

Sherlock    13:51  
As I recall, you are quite good at the art of  
sexting. SH

John    13:51  
Yeah, I just go with what feels good in the  
moment

Sherlock    13:51  
Yet you have effectively navigated the  
categories 1) previews; 3) fantasies; 4)  
teasing; 5) memories; and 6) compliments, in  
our first sexting encounter only. SH

John    13:52  
Wow. I didn't know that.

John    13:52  
Seems I missed two categories though. My  
bad.

Sherlock    13:52  
Don't worry. Categories 2) requests and 7)  
responses were being covered by my side of  
the conversation.

John    13:53  
Oh, that's good.

John    13:53  
Care to give me an example of those?

Sherlock    13:54  
I want you to press your face to the front of  
my trousers and breathe me in

Sherlock    13:54  
I need to feel you inside me

Sherlock    13:54  
Let me slide my tongue across your  
perineum

Sherlock    13:54  
Etcetera. SH

John    13:55  
Um, wow

Sherlock    13:55  
This is where category 7 would be applicable  
for you. For example:

Sherlock    13:55  
Tell me more

Sherlock    13:56  
That makes me hard

Sherlock    13:56  
Your messages leave me so distracted

Sherlock    13:56  
This is just off the website; you can use your  
imagination and come up with responses of  
your own. SH

John    13:57  
That's good.

John    13:57  
So if I would tell you that when you get home,  
I'll meet you at the stairs and spin you around  
so you have to grab the handrail not to fall,  
and I'll drop to my knees before you even  
know what's happening…

John    13:58  
What category would that be?

Sherlock    13:58  
1\. SH

John    13:59  
You won't have time to get out of your coat,  
scarf, or even your gloves.

Sherlock    13:59  
Still 1. SH

John    14:00  
I'll press my face to your crotch like you  
asked, nuzzle your already hard cock through  
the fabric, exhaling hot breaths

Sherlock    14:00  
Type faster, John.

John    14:01  
Your smell is so sexy, you know

Sherlock    14:01  
Category 6

John    14:01  
I'll tear your trousers open, put my hands on  
your gorgeous hipbones, press you back hard  
against the rail

Sherlock    14:01  
Back to 1, with an element of 6

John    14:02  
You'll put your gloved hand on my head to  
push me away, for the sake of decency

John    14:02  
But you'll end up just clutching my hair when  
I suck you into my mouth

John    14:02  
You'll gasp against your will, and have to let  
go of me to put your hand over your mouth

John    14:03  
And you still won't be able to be entirely quiet

John    14:03  
You'll stand there, fully clothed, hearing the  
traffic just outside the door. A minute ago  
you were outside in broad daylight and now  
you're about to come in my mouth

John    14:03  
I'll pull you in and out slowly, taking you into  
my cheek so you can see yourself inside me  
when you look down

John    14:04  
You'll try not to look but you can't help it, can  
you

John    14:04  
So this was all category 1?

Sherlock    14:04  
Largely, ye

John    14:05  
Well, this has been very informative.

John    14:05  
Thank you.

Sherlock    14:07  
John

John    14:07  
Yes, love?

Sherlock    14:07  
Are you stopping?

John    14:07  
Well, I think I've learned enough for today.

Sherlock    14:08  
Ah, I see. Back to category 4) teasing.

John    14:08  
I have no idea what you're talking about.

Sherlock    14:08  
You do have a tendency to end in that  
category.

John    14:09  
Well I don't want to finish this thing from a  
distance.

Sherlock    14:09  
I might just.

John    14:09  
Hey, no!

John    14:10  
Don't touch yourself

Sherlock    14:10  
Please, John

John    14:10  
No, get home and let me.

Sherlock    14:11  
On my way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I did have a lot of fun analysing chapter 22 of Undersea-Rainbows according to Sherlock's sexting classification. Which by the way is taken from a real website. Ah, the weird research we do for fics.


	54. 15th March: Blog Draft

Soft music played when I opened the black door. Otherwise the house was quiet and still, dust particles hanging in the air in a ray of sunlight from the window by the stairs.

I opened the door to 221B and promptly dropped the envelope I'd picked up from the doormat downstairs.

Sherlock was in the living room. He was dressed in a pair of tight, black leggings and one of my old sleeping t-shirts. On his feet were a pair of ballet shoes I've never seen before. He was dancing.

I'm not sure this creature is real. He was dancing, and it was light and it was fierce, it was explosive and it was languid, it was fast and it was easy, and it shouldn't be possible to dance like that without a sound. It just shouldn't.

I stood in the doorway, watching with my mouth hanging open. I've never seen him dance. He's never told me he can. But he knew I would come home at this time, and I'm not sure what it means that he chose to show me now, but he did.

We never reached this level of intimacy and certainty before he fell. It's like this raw beauty has come out of that and I can't even

He was springing like gravity is something that doesn't concern him, he was twirling like he was at the centre of the world and everything was forced to a stop around him. Every movement of his wrists seemed deliberate, every sensual stretch of his neck. My light grey shirt was darker from sweat down his spine, and the beginning of his scars were visible by the stretched neckline. His curls were a damp mess and he was breathing hard, must have been dancing for a long time.

I've never seen him so sexy, which says an awful lot. But never mind that; I've also never seen him so _honest_. He was bared from all the layers he usually puts up to conceal his soul. I see through them every day, I've always been able to, but this time it was with my naked eye. It was _just him_ , moving over the soft notes, and when I caught sight of his face, there was the tiniest hint of a smile behind his closed eyes.

The music shifted and he turned to me slowly, stretched his hand out to me with the same grace. I took it and he pulled me in, wrapped his arms around me in my stiff coat that I still hadn't taken off. His skin was damp, his whole body hot against mine, he smelled of sweat and his chest was still heaving.

“You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen”, I said in his ear, my voice the most pathetic wreck.

“Hmm. Dance with me”, he hummed.

I can't dance, but it didn't matter. He swayed me carefully, round and round in a slow circle. When the music reached a climax his head fell back, allowing me to press my mouth against his long throat. And I wish I could tell him, I wish he knew what I see when I look at him, I wish he knew how I feel. All I can do is hold him carefully, letting him feel by the press of my hands how he is of all things the most precious to me.


	55. 18th March: Letter From Sherlock

John,

 

As I am writing this, you are asleep beside me; your nose is pressed against my hip in a rather endearing way. Gladstone is asleep on top of my feet. A need for structuring my thoughts has me wishing for my violin, but as neither of you would let me move away at the moment, I will attempt your strategy: writing.

I know you have written me a few letters without delivering them. Don't worry; I have not read them, nor have I read the drafts you have privately saved on your blog (and, as you know, the note from your wallet was found by accident, not by seeking to pry). I have no interest in such an intrusion on your privacy; as I am more observant than most, it seems fair that the matters I am unable to observe remain private to you. What interests me is your writing itself. I have observed that it is highly beneficial to your health – a fact that reinforces my resolution to let you keep it to yourself. It helps you to arrange your thoughts and to process your feelings, leaving you peaceful and collected. While this is what the violin usually does for me, I am curious to try your methods.

Unlike you, however, I think I will deliver this letter. There are a few things I have been wanting to tell you, and upon watching your sleeping face, I find myself unable to wait any longer. I have long ago accepted the fact that I will never be able to convey my love for you, but perhaps my gratitude is an easier matter. I want to thank you, John, for waiting for me.

When we met, I was no easy man to engage with. Experience had led me to the decision to keep myself distant and cold. As a result, people called me rude, heartless and psychopathic. You, however, would not let yourself be fooled. You were amazed by my ability to “see right through you” (as you so unscientifically call it), all the while oblivious to the fact that you did the same with me. You saw the core of me even when I tried to hide it from you, and you decided that you could wait.

The tension between us was quite obvious from the start, to both of us. But I refused you and again, you took a step back, allowed me space, and stayed. You waited while I wasted time telling myself that if I gave an inch, you would be my downfall. You see, I learned early in my life about the disadvantages of caring. As a child I was unable to shield myself from the world around me; my every sense was constantly wide open, and I was seized with curiosity and love. The exposure to other children was of course a great disappointment, but as I did not love them, it did not teach me the lesson Mycroft rather desperately tried to explain to me. Perhaps his insistent preaching should have prepared me for the loss of my dog, but unfortunately it did not. The loss was overwhelming, and taught me not to love so recklessly. I spent the better part of my youth building a wall of ice around me, not to let myself be consumed by either the world or by my own heart.

At university, I made a mistake. I never loved Sebastian, in fact I hated him, but I discovered that in letting a man into me, I somehow gave him an entrance through the ice. In giving my body, I also gave control, and I am sure you can imagine how that control may be abused in the wrong hands. When I got out of that association, I promised myself to never again let anyone come into me and make me smaller than I am.

But my heart would not so easily be silenced. You entered my life and you made a room for yourself in it, and I found myself more fascinated by you than by any other human I have met. I was embarrassed to see in pictures how my gaze on you gave me away, but I was unable to stop looking. When you finally started pursuing me, you know how terrified I was, but it was also everything I had ever hoped would happen. At that point, you had proved time and time again that nothing I had previously learned applied to John Watson, but how could I be sure? Was it enough to revoke a decision I had reached, based on solid evidence?

You allowed me to be uncertain. You allowed me to be cautious. You smiled at me, then waited. You came out to me, you touched me lightly, you flirted not-so-subtly, then waited. You let me see your affection, driven by something else than biology. You respected me, to the point where it drove me to wishing you would stop doing so and make me yours. And that's when you did.

When I stood on the edge of St Bart's roof, I realised that love would indeed be my downfall, but in a different way than I had predicted. Although I was later in denial about the fact, in that moment, I knew there were no guarantees that you would wait again. The idea that you might not have any more patience to give to me was excruciating, but even then, I did not regret letting you in. You had not consumed me, even though you could have easily done so; you had treated me exclusively with kindness and respect, and through you I had learned to be joyful without being afraid. In having you, if only for the briefest time, and then losing you again, I saw that a life of loneliness and cold was not desirable. The conclusion I came to was baffling; even if it meant my destruction, I did not regret melting the ice around my heart. Not even when I came back far too late and suffered the consequences of an exposed heart did I regret doing that.

I was surprised to observe that in exposing one's heart, the heart is easier to heal. The realisation that you did not want me back in your life caused me unspeakable grief, but I worked on accepting the fact that my life would go on without you.

But then, miracle of miracles… you waited for me once more.

You are a marvel, John Watson. When I hold you in my arms, feel your breathing deepen and your pulse slow until you are asleep, when I inhale the scent of your hair and the cooling sweat on your skin, it dawns on me that I have waited for you my whole life. And the fact that you have waited in your turn touches me deeply.

The light seeping in through the curtains tells me it is approaching five a.m. I probably have mere minutes until Gladstone wakes up and takes me out on our morning walk. When I get back, I intend to slide down under the covers with you and wake you up in a way that can hopefully convey, more clearly than any words can, how deeply I love you.

Thank you, John.

 

Your Sherlock


	56. 24th March: Blog Draft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are, at the end of this tale. Thank you for following me through the series, I've had a great time with it! I'm sure gonna miss these soft boys.

Mrs Hudson invited me for tea today. Well, us, but Sherlock couldn't take a break from his experiment so I went alone.

When she was in the kitchen, I went to the fireplace as usual. She still has that picture of us from my birthday all those years ago, with my goofy smile and Sherlock's shining eyes. We were so in love. Always have been.

Beside it, there was a new photo. Never underestimate the sneakiness of Mrs Hudson – I had no idea she had taken this picture, I don't even know when she did it. She must have sneaked into 221B at some point and found us like that. And then she thought it appropriate to frame it on her mantelpiece for everyone to see. Sherlock will be mortified.

It's taken in our living room. Right on the middle of the rug we're lying, Sherlock, Gladstone and I. Gladstone is in the middle, Sherlock is spooning him and I have his paws pressed against my torso. Our arms are wrapped over him, reaching over to rest our hands on one another. We're all asleep, but our faces are bright somehow, as if we're smiling. Especially Gladstone. But he always looks like he's smiling.

It's a beautiful picture, despite the silliness of it. Mrs Hudson has a knack for photography, clearly.

She came in with the tray and joined me by the pictures. “I hope you don't mind, I just couldn't resist. It's so lovely to see you together again, and to see you both so calm and happy. You deserve the peace, dear.”

Peace isn't a word I ever thought I'd use to describe my life with Sherlock, and some days it really isn't fitting at all. Some days it's all dangerous criminals in every back alley and fierce breath in our throats. Some days it's furious tearing at clothes and demands to have or be had over every possible and impossible piece of furniture. Some days it's scars rubbed the wrong way and grief and heartbreak flaming up at every turn.

But in between, there is calm. There are spring walks and cuddles and quiet kisses. And at the core of even the most turbulent day, there is trust. There's the certainty that this is right, that the search and the waiting and the doubts are all over. At the core of it all, there is love, and the knowledge that we will keep it forever. Our lives have settled into the whirlwind that is us, and it all simply makes sense.

At the core of it all, there is peace.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [eighteen.nighteen.twenty](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14524131) by [allsovacant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant)
  * [[Cover] Prism](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14885495) by [allsovacant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant)




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